tlffi  HUMAN  DRIFT 

JACK  LONDON 


GIFT  OF 


THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NBW  YORK  •   BOSTON  •   CHICAGO  •  DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •   SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •   BOMBAY  •   CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 


BY 

JACK  LONDON 

Author  of  "The  Call  of  the  Wild,"  etc. 


Nro  fork 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1917 


Copyright,   1906 
BY  Ess  Ess  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1909 
BY  THE  BUTTERICK  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1911 

BY  MITCHELL  KENNERLY  AND  BY  THE  INDEPENDENT 
Copyright,  1912 

BY  DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  AND  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1917 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published,  February,  1917. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ONE.    THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 1 

TWO.    NOTHING  THAT  EVER  CAME  TO  ANYTHING  .  27 

THREE.     THAT  DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER     ...  35 

FOUR,    SMALL-BOAT  SAILING 52 

FIVE.    FOUR  HORSES  AND  A  SAILOR 74 

SIX.    A  CLASSIC  OF  THE  SEA 101 

A  WICKED  WOMAN  (Curtain  Raiser)    .     .  Ill 

THE  BIRTH  MARK  (SketcH) 155 


357960 


THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 


THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

ONE 

THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

"  The  Revelations  of  Devout  and  Learn'd 
Who  rose  before  us,  and  as  Prophets  Burn'd, 

Are  all  but  stories,  which,  awoke  from  Sleep, 
They  told  their  comrades,  and  to  Sleep  return'd." 

npHE  history  of  civilisation  is  a  history  of 
A  wandering,  sword  in  hand,  in  search  of 
food.  In  the  misty  younger  world  we  catch 
glimpses  of  phantom  races,  rising,  slaying,  find 
ing  food,  building  rude  civilisations,  decaying, 
falling  under  the  swords  of  stronger  hands, 
and  passing  utterly  away.  Man,  like  any  other 
animal,  has  roved  over  the  earth  seeking  what 
he  might  devour;  and  not  romance  and  adven 
ture,  but  the  hunger-need,  has  urged  him  on  his 
vast  adventures.  Whether  a  bankrupt  gentleman 
sailing  to  colonise  Virginia  or  a  lean  Cantonese 
contracting  to  labour  on  the  sugar  plantations  of 
Hawaii,  in  each  case,  gentleman  and  coolie,  it  is 

i 


2  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

a  desperate  attempt  to  get  something  to  eat,  to 
get  more  to  eat  than  he  can  get  at  home. 

It  has  always  been  so,  from  the  time  of  the  first 
pre-human  anthropoid  crossing  a  mountain-divide 
in  quest  of  better  berry-bushes  beyond,  down  to 
the  latest  Slovak,  arriving  on  our  shores  to-day, 
to  go  to  work  in  the  coal-mines  of  Pennsylvania. 
These  migratory  movements  of  peoples  have  been 
called  drifts,  and  the  word  is  apposite.  Un 
planned,  blind,  automatic,  spurred  on  by  the  pain 
of  hunger,  man  has  literally  drifted  ^his  way 
around  the  planet.  There  have  been  drifts  in  the 
past,  innumerable  and  forgotten,  and  so  remote 
that  no  records  have  been  left,  or  composed  of 
such  low-typed  humans  or  pre-humans  that  they 
made  no  scratchings  on  stone  or  bone  and  left  no 
monuments  to  show  that  they  had  been.  These 
early  drifts  we  conjecture  and  know  must  have 
occurred,  just  as  we  know  that  the  first  upright- 
walking  brutes  were  descended  from  some  kin  of 
the  quadrumana  through  having  developed  "  a 
pair  of  great  toes  out  of  two  opposable  thumbs." 
Dominated  by  fear,  and  by  their  very  fear  ac 
celerating  their  development,  these  early  ances 
tors  of  ours,  suffering  hunger-pangs  very  like  the 
ones  we  experience  to-day,  drifted  on,  hunting 
and  being  hunted,  eating  and  being  eaten,  wan- 


THE  HUMAN  DKIFT  3 

dering  through  thousand-year-long  odysseys  of 
screaming  primordial  savagery,  until  they  left 
their  skeletons  in  glacial  gravels,  some  of  them, 
and  their  bone-scratchings  in  cavemen's  lairs. 

There  have  been  drifts  from  east  to  west  and 
west  to  east,  from  north  to  south  and  back  again, 
drifts  that  have  criss-crossed  one  another,  and 
drifts  colliding  and  recoiling  and  caroming  off  in 
new  directions.  From  Central  Europe  the  Aryans 
have  drifted  into  Asia,  and  from  Central  Asia 
the  Turanians  have  drifted  across  Europe.  Asia 
has  thrown  forth  great  waves  of  hungry  humans 
from  the  prehistoric  "  round-barrow  "  "  broad- 
heads"  who  overran  Europe  and  penetrated  to 
Scandinavia  and  England,  down  through  the 
hordes  of  Attila  and  Tamerlane,  to  the  present 
immigration  of  Chinese  and  Japanese  that  threat 
ens  America.  The  Phoenicians  and  the  Greeks, 
with  unremembered  drifts  behind  them,  colonised 
the  Mediterranean.  Rome  was  engulfed  in  the 
torrent  of  Germanic  tribes  drifting  down  from 
the  north  before  a  flood  of  drifting  Asiatics. 
The  Angles,  Saxons,  and  Jutes,  after  having 
drifted  whence  no  man  knows,  poured  into  Brit 
ain,  and  the  English  have  carried  this  drift  on 
around  the  world.  Retreating  before  stronger 
breeds,  hungry  and  voracious,  the  Eskimo  has 


4  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

drifted  to  the  inhospitable  polar  regions,  the 
Pigmy  to  the  fever-rotten  jungles  of  Africa. 
And  in  this  day  the  drift  of  the  races  continues, 
whether  it  be  of  Chinese  into  the  Philippines  and 
the  Malay  Peninsula,  of  Europeans  to  the  United 
States  or  of  Americans  to  the  wheat-lands  of 
Manitoba  and  the  Northwest. 

Perhaps  most  amazing  has  been  the  South  Sea 
Drift.  Blind,  fortuitous,  precarious  as  no  other 
drift  has  been,  nevertheless  the  islands  in  that 
waste  of  ocean  have  received  drift  after  drift  of 
the  races.  Down  from  the  mainland  of  Asia 
poured  an  Aryan  drift  that  built  civilisations  in 
Ceylon,  Java,  and  Sumatra.  Only  the  monu 
ments  of  these  Aryans  remain.  They  them 
selves  have  perished  utterly,  though  not  until 
after  leaving  evidences  of  their  drift  clear  across 
the  great  South  Pacific  to  far  Easter  Island. 
And  on  that  drift  they  encountered  races  who 
had  accomplished  the  drift  before  them,  and 
they,  the  Aryans,  passed,  in  turn,  before  the  drift 
of  other  and  subsequent  races  whom  we  to-day 
call  the  Polynesian  and  the  Melanesian. 

Man  early  discovered  death.  As  soon  as  his 
evolution  permitted,  he  made  himself  better  de 
vices  for  killing  than  the  old  natural  ones  of  fang 
and  claw.  He  devoted  himself  to  the  invention 


THE  HUMAN  DRIFT  5 

of  killing  devices  before  lie  discovered  fire  or 
manufactured  for  himself  religion.  And  to  this 
day,  his  finest  creative  energy  and  technical  skill 
are  devoted  to  the  same  old  task  of  making  better 
and  ever  better  killing  weapons.  All  his  days, 
down  all  the  past,  have  been  spent  in  killing. 
And  from  the  fear-stricken,  jungle-lurking,  cave- 
haunting  creature  of  long  ago,  he  won  to  empery 
over  the  whole  animal  world  because  he  devel 
oped  into  the  most  terrible  and  av;ful  killer  of 
all  the  animals.  He  found  himself  crowded.  He 
killed  to  make  room,  and  as  he  made  room  ever 
he  increased  and  found  himself  crowded,  and 
ever  he  went  on  killing  to  make  more  room. 
Like  a  settler  clearing  land  of  its  weeds  and  for 
est  bushes  in  order  to  plant  corn,  so  man  was 
compelled  to  clear  all  manner  of  life  away  in 
order  to  plant  himself.  And,  sword  in  hand,  he 
has  literally  hewn  his  way  through  the  vast 
masses  of  life  that  occupied  the  earth  space  he 
coveted  for  himself.  And  ever  he  has  carried 
the  battle  wider  and  wider,  until  to-day  not  only 
is  he  a  far  more  capable  killer  of  men  and  ani 
mals  than  ever  before,  but  he  has  pressed  the 
battle  home  to  the  infinite  and  invisible  hosts  of 
menacing  lives  in  the  world  of  micro-organ 
isms. 


6  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

It  is  true,  that  they  that  rose  by  the  sword  per 
ished  by  the  sword.  And  yet,  not  only  did  they 
not  all  perish,  but  more  rose  by  the  sword  than 
perished  by  it,  else  man  would  not  to-day  be  over 
running  the  world  in  such  huge  swarms.  Also, 
it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  they  who  did  not 
rise  by  the  sword  did  not  rise  at  all.  They  were 
not.  In  view  of  this,  there  is  something  wrong 
with  Doctor  Jordan's  war-theory,  which  is  to 
the  effect  that  the  best  being  sent  out  to  war, 
only  the  second  best,  the  men  who  are  left,  re 
main  to  breed  a  second  best  race,  and  that,  there 
fore,  the  human  race  deteriorates  under  war. 
If  this  be  so,  if  we  have  sent  forth  the  best  we 
bred  and  gone  on  breeding  from  the  men  who 
were  left,  and  since  we  have  done  this  for  ten 
thousand  millenniums  and  are  what  we  splen 
didly  are  to-day,  then  what  unthinkably  splendid 
and  god-like  beings  must  have  been  our  forebears 
those  ten  thousand  millenniums  ago.  Unfortu 
nately  for  Doctor  Jordan's  theory,  those  ancient 
forebears  cannot  live  up  to  this  fine  reputation. 
We  know  them  for  what  they  were,  and  before 
the  monkey  cage  of  any  menagerie  we  catch  truer 
glimpses  and  hints  and  resemblances  of  what 
our  ancestors  really  were  long  and  long  ago. 
And  by  killing,  incessant  killing,  by  making  a 


THE  HUMAN  DRIFT  7 

shambles  of  the  planet,  those  ape-like  creatures 
have  developed  even  into  you  and  me.  As  Henley 
has  said  in  "  The  Song  of  the  Sword  " : 

"The  Sword  Singing  — 

Driving  the  darkness, 

Even  as  the  banners 

And  spears  of  the  Morning; 

Sifting  the  nations, 

The  Slag  from  the  metal, 

The  waste  and  the  weak 

From  the  fit  and  the  strong ; 

Fighting  the  brute, 

The  abysmal  Fecundity ; 

Checking  the  gross 

Multitudinous  blunders, 

The  groping,  the  purblind 

Excesses  in  service 

Of  the  Womb  universal, 

The  absolute  drudge." 

CAs  time  passed  and  man  increased,  he  drifted 
over  farther  afield  in  search  of  room.  He  en 
countered  other  drifts  of  men,  and  the  killing 
of  men  became  prodigious.  The  weak  and  the 
decadent  fell  under  the  sword.  Nations  that  fal 
tered,  that  waxed  prosperous  in  fat  valleys  and 
rich  river  deltas,  were  swept  away  by  the  drifts 
of  stronger  men  who  were  nourished  on  the  hard 
ships  of  deserts  and  mountains  and  who  were 
more  capable  with  the  sword.  Unknown  and  un 
numbered  billions  of  men  have  been  so  destroyed 


8  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

in  prehistoric  times.  Draper  says  that  in  the 
twenty  years  of  the  Gothic  war,  Italy  lost  15,- 
000,000  of  her  population ;  "  and  that  the  wars, 
famines,  and  pestilences  of  the  reign  of  Jus 
tinian  diminished  the  human  species  by  the  al 
most  incredible  number  of  100,000,000."  Ger 
many,  in  the  Thirty  Years'  War,  lost  6,000,000 
inhabitants.  The  record  of  our  own  American 
Civil  War  need  scarcely  be  recalled. 

And  man  has  been  destroyed  in  other  ways 
than  by  the  sword.  Flood,  famine,  pestilence 
and  murder  are  potent  factors  in  reducing  popu 
lation —  in  making  room.  As  Mr.  Charles 
Woodruff,  in  his  "  Expansion  of  Races,"  has  in 
stanced  :  In  1886,  when  the  dikes  of  the  Yellow 
River  burst,  7,000,000  people  were  drowned. 
The  failure  of  crops  in  Ireland,  in  1848,  caused 
1,000,000  deaths.  The  famines  in  India  of 
1896-7  and  1899-1900  lessened  the  population  by 
21,000,000.  The  T'ai'ping  rebellion  and  the  Mo 
hammedan  rebellion,  combined  with  the  famine 
of  1877-78,  destroyed  scores  of  millions  of  Chi 
nese.  Europe  has  been  swept  repeatedly  by  great 
plagues.  In  India,  for  the  period  of  1903  to 
1907,  the  plague  deaths  averaged  between  one 
and  two  millions  a  year.  Mr.  Woodruff  is  re 
sponsible  for  the  assertion  that  10,000,000  per- 


THE  HUMAN  DRIFT  9 

sons  now  living  in  the  United  States  are  doomed 
to  die  of  tuberculosis.  And  in  this  same  country 
ten  thousand  persons  a  year  are  directly  mur 
dered.  In  China,  between  three  and  six  millions 
of  infants  are  annually  destroyed,  wrhile  the  total 
infanticide  record  of  the  whole  world  is  appal 
ling.  In  Africa,  now,  human  beings  are  dying  by 
millions  of  the  sleeping  sickness. 

More  destructive  of  life  than  war,  is  industry 
In  all  civilised  countries  great  masses  of  people 
are  crowded  into  slums  and  labour-ghettos,  where 
disease  festers,  vice  corrodes,  and  famine  is 
chronic,  and  where  they  die  more  swiftly  and  in 
greater  numbers  than  do  the  soldiers  in  our  mod 
ern  wars.  The  very  infant  mortality  of  a  slum 
parish  in  the  East  End  of  London  is  three  times 
that  of  a  middle  class  parish  in  the  West  End. 
In  the  United  States,  in  the  last  fourteen  years, 
a  total  of  coal-miners,  greater  than  our  entire 
standing  army,  has  been  killed  and  injured. 
The  United  States  Bureau  of  Labour  states  that 
during  the  year  1908,  there  were  between  30,000 
and  35,000  deaths  of  workers  by  accidents,  while 
200,000  more  were  injured.  In  fact,  the  safest 
place  for  a  workingnian  is  in  the  army.  And 
even  if  that  army  be  at  the  front,  fighting  in 
Cuba  or  South  Africa,  the  soldier  in  the  ranks 


10  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

has  a  better  chance  for  life  than  the  workingman 
at  home. 

And  yet,  despite  this  terrible  roll  of  death,  de 
spite  the  enormous  killing  of  the  past  and  the 
enormous  killing  of  the  present,  there  are  to-day 
alive  on  the  planet  a  billion  and  three-quarters 
of  human  beings.  Our  immediate  conclusion  is 
that  man  is  exceedingly  fecund  and  very  tough. 
Never  before  have  there  been  so  many  people  in 
the  world.  In  the  past  centuries  the  world's 
population  has  been  smaller;  in  the  future  cen 
turies  it  is  destined  to  be  larger.  And  this  brings 
us  to  that  old  bugbear  that  has  been  so  frequently 
laughed  away  and  that  still  persists  in  raising 
its  grisly  head  —  namely,  the  doctrine  of  Mal- 
thus.  While  man's  increasing  efficiency  of  food- 
production,  combined  with  colonisation  of  whole 
virgin  continents,  has  for  generations  given  the 
apparent  lie  to  Malthus'  mathematical  statement 
of  the  Law  of  Population,  nevertheless  the  essen 
tial  significance  of  his  doctrine  remains  and 
cannot  be  challenged.  Population  does  press 
against  subsistence.  And  no  matter  how  rapidly 
subsistence  increases,  population  is  certain  to 
catch  up  with  it. 

When  man  was  in  the  hunting  stage  of  de 
velopment,  wide  areas  were  necessary  for  the 


THE  HUMAN  DRIFT  11 

maintenance  of  scant  populations.  With  the 
shepherd  stages,  the  means  of  subsistence  being 
increased,  a  larger  population  was  supported  on 
the  same  territory.  The  agricultural  stage  gave 
support  to  a  still  larger  population ;  and,  to-day, 
with  the  increased  food-getting  efficiency  of  a 
machine  civilisation,  an  even  larger  population 
is  made  possible.  Nor  is  this  theoretical.  The 
population  is  here,  a  billion  and  three  quarters 
of  men,  women,  and  children,  and  this  vast  pop 
ulation  is  increasing  on  itself  by  leaps  and 
bounds. 

A  heavy  European  drift  to  the  New  World  has 
gone  on  and  is  going  on ;  yet  Europe,  whose  pop 
ulation  a  century  ago  was  170,000,000,  has  to-day 
500,000,000.  At  this  rate  of  increase,  provided 
that  subsistence  is  not  overtaken,  a  century  from 
now  the  population  of  Europe  will  be  1,500,000,- 
000.  And  be  it  noted  of  the  present  rate  of  in 
crease  in  the  United  States  that  only  one-third  is 
due  to  immigration,  while  two-thirds  is  due  to 
excess  of  births  over  deaths.  And  at  this  pres 
ent  rate  of  increase,  the  population  of  the  United 
States  will  be  500,000,000  in  less  than  a  century 
from  now. 

Man,  the  hungry  one,  the  killer,  has  always 
suffered  for  lack  of  room.  The  world  has  been 


12  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

chronically  overcrowded.  Belgium  with  her  572 
persons  to  the  square  mile  is  no  more  crowded 
than  was  Denmark  when  it  supported  only  500 
paleolithic  people.  According  to  Mr.  Woodruff, 
cultivated  land  will  produce  1600  times  as  much 
food  as  hunting  land.  From  the  time  of  the  Nor 
man  Conquest,  for  centuries  Europe  could  sup 
port  no  more  than  25  to  the  square  mile.  To-day 
Europe  supports  81  to  the  square  mile.  The  ex 
planation  for  this  is  that  for  the  several  centuries 
after  the  Norman  Conquest  her  population  was 
saturated.  Then,  with  the  development  of  trad 
ing  and  capitalism,  of  exploration  and  exploita 
tion  of  new  lands,  and  with  the  invention  of  la 
bour-saving  machinery  and  the  discovery  and 
application  of  scientific  principles,  was  brought 
about  a  tremendous  increase  in  Europe's  food- 
getting  efficiency.  And  immediately  her  popula 
tion  sprang  up. 

According  to  the  census  of  Ireland,  of  1659, 
that  country  had  a  population  of  500,000.  One 
hundred  and  fifty  years  later,  her  population  was 
8,000,000.  For  many  centuries  the  population  of 
Japan  was  stationary.  There  seemed  no  way  of 
increasing  her  food-getting  efficiency.  Then, 
sixty  years  ago,  came  Commodore  Perry,  knock 
ing  down  her  doors  and  letting  in  the  knowledge 


THE  HUMAN  DRIFT  13 

and  machinery  of  the  superior  food-getting  effici 
ency  of  the  Western  world.  Immediately  upon 
this  rise  in  subsistence  began  the  rise  of  popula 
tion;  and  it  is  only  the  other  day  that  Japan, 
finding  her  population  once  again  pressing 
against  subsistence,  embarked,  sword  in  hand,  on 
a  westward  drift  in  search  of  more  room.  And, 
sword  in  hand,  killing  and  being  killed,  she  has 
carved  out  for  herself  Formosa  and  Korea,  and 
driven  the  vanguard  of  her  drift  far  into  the  rich 
interior  of  Manchuria. 

For  an  immense  period  of  time  China's  popu 
lation  has  remained  at  400,000,000  —  the  satura 
tion  point.  The  only  reason  that  the  Yellow 
River  periodically  drowns  millions  of  Chinese  is 
that  there  is  no  other  land  for  those  millions  to 
farm.  And  after  every  such  catastrophe  the 
wave  of  human  life  rolls  up  and  now  millions 
flood  out  upon  that  precarious  territory.  They 
are  driven  to  it,  because  they  are  pressed  re 
morselessly  against  subsistence.  It  is  inevit 
able  that  China,  sooner  or  later,  like  Japan,  will 
learn  and  put  into  application  our  own  superior 
food-getting  efficiency.  And  when  that  time 
comes,  it  is  likewise  inevitable  that  her  popula 
tion  will  increase  by  unguessed  millions  until  it 
again  reaches  the  saturation  point.  And  then, 


14  THE  HUMAN  DKIFT 

inoculated  with  Western  ideas,  may  she  not,  like 
Japan,  take  sword  in  hand  and  start  forth  colos- 
sally  on  a  drift  of  her  own  for  more  room.  This 
is  another  reputed  bogie  —  the  Yellow  Peri] ; 
yet  the  men  of  China  are  only  men,  like  any 
other  race  of  men,  and  all  men,  down  all  his 
tory,  have  drifted  hungrily,  here,  there  and  every 
where  over  the  planet,  seeking  for  something  to 
eat.  What  other  men  do,  may  not  the  Chinese 
do? 

But  a  change  has  long  been  coming  in  the 
affairs  of  man.  The  more  recent  drifts  of  the 
stronger  races,  carving  their  way  through  the  les 
ser  breeds  to  more  earth-space,  has  led  to  peace, 
ever  to  wider  and  more  lasting  peace.  The  lesser 
breeds,  under  penalty  of  being  killed,  have  been 
compelled  to  lay  down  their  weapons  and  cease 
killing  among  themselves.  The  scalp-taking  In 
dian  and  the  head-hunting  Melanesian  have  been 
either  destroyed  or  converted  to  a  belief  in  the 
superior  efficacy  of  civil  suits  and  criminal  prose 
cutions.  The  planet  is  being  subdued.  The 
wild  and  the  hurtful  are  either  tamed  or  elim 
inated.  From  the  beasts  of  prey  and  the  canni 
bal  humans  down  to  the  death-dealing  microbes, 
no  quarter  is  given ;  and  daily,  wider  and  wider 
areas  of  hostile  territory,  whether  of  a  warring 


THE  HUMAN  DRIFT  15 

desert-tribe  in  Africa  or  a  pestilential  fever-hole 
like  Panama,  are  made  peaceable  and  habitable 
for  mankind.  As  for  the  great  mass  of  stay-at- 
home  folk,  what  percentage  of  the  present  gener 
ation  in  the  United  States,  England,  or  Germany, 
has  seen  war  or  knows  anything  of  war  at  first 
hand?  There  was  never  so  much  peace  in  the 
world  as  there  is  to-day. 

War  itself,  the  old  red  anarch,  is  passing.  It 
is  safer  to  be  a  soldier  than  a  workingman.  The 
chance  for  life  is  greater  in  an  active  campaign 
than  in  a  factory  or  a  coal-mine.  In  the  matter 
of  killing,  war  is  growing  impotent,  and  this  in 
face  of  the  fact  that  the  machinery  of  war  was 
never  so  expensive  in  the  past  nor  so  dreadful. 
War-equipment  to-day,  in  time  of  peace,  is  more 
expensive  than  of  old  in  time  of  war.  A  standing 
army  costs  more  to  maintain  than  it  used  to  cost 
to  conquer  an  empire.  It  is  more  expensive  to  be 
ready  to  kill,  than  it  used  to  be  to  do  the  killing. 
The  price  of  a  Dreadnaught  would  furnish  the 
whole  army  of  Xerxes  with  killing  weapons. 
And,  in  spite  of  its  magnificent  equipment,  war 
no  longer  kills  as  it  used  to  when  its  methods 
were  simpler.  A  bombardment  by  a  modern  fleet 
has  been  known  to  result  in  the  killing  of  one 
mule.  The  casualties  of  a  twentieth  century  war 


16  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

between  two  world-powers  are  such  as  to  make  a 
worker  in  an  iron-foundry  turn  green  with  envy. 
War  has  become  a  joke.  Men  have  made  for 
themselves  monsters  of  battle  which  they  cannot 
face  in  battle.  Subsistence  is  generous  these 
days,  life  is  not  cheap,  and  it  is  not  in  the  nature 
of  flesh  and  blood  to  indulge  in  the  carnage  made 
possible  by  present-day  machinery.  This  is  not 
theoretical,  as  will  be  shown  by  a  comparison  of 
deaths  in  battle  and  men  involved,  in  the  South 
African  War  and  the  Spanish-American  War  on 
the  one  hand,  and  the  Civil  War  or  the  Napo 
leonic  Wars  on  the  other. 

Not  only  has  war,  by  its  own  evolution,  ren 
dered  itself  futile,  but  man  himself,  with  greater 
wisdom  and  higher  ethics,  is  opposed  to  war.  He 
has  learned  too  much.  War  is  repugnant  to  his 
common  sense.  He  conceives  it  to  be  wrong,  to 
be  absurd,  and  to  be  very  expensive.  For  the 
damage  wrought  and  the  results  accomplished, 
it  is  not  worth  the  price.  Just  as  in  the  disputes 
of  individuals  the  arbitration  of  a  civil  court  in 
stead  of  a  blood  feud  is  more  practical,  so,  man 
decides,  is  arbitration  more  practical  in  the  dis 
putes  of  nations. 

War  is  passing,  disease  is  being  conquered,  and 
man's  food-getting  efficiency  is  increasing.  It 


THE  HUMAN  DRIFT  17 

is  because  of  these  factors  that  there  are  a  bil 
lion  and  three  quarters  of  people  alive  to-day 
instead  of  a  billion,  or  three-quarter  of  a  billion. 
And  it  is  because  of  these  factors  that  the  world's 
population  will  very  soon  be  two  billions  and 
climbing  rapidly  toward  three  billions.  The  life 
time  of  the  generation  is  increasing  steadily. 
Men  live  longer  these  days.  Life  is  not  so  pre 
carious.  The  newborn  infant  has  a  greater 
chance  for  survival  than  at  any  time  in  the  past. 
Surgery  and  sanitation  reduce  the  fatalities  that 
accompany  the  mischances  of  life  and  the  ravages 
of  disease.  Men  and  women,  with  deficiencies 
and  weaknesses  that  in  the  past  would  have  ef 
fected  their  rapid  extinction,  live  to-day  and 
father  and  mother  a  numerous  progeny.  And 
high  as  the  food-getting  efficiency  may  soar^  pop 
ulation  is  bound  to  soar  after  it.  The  "  abysmal 
fecundity  "  of  life  has  not  altered.  Given  the 
food,  and  life  will  increase.  A  small  percentage 
of  the  billion  and  three-quarters  that  live  to-day 
may  hush  the  clamour  of  life  to  be  born,  but  it 
is  only  a  small  percentage.  In  this  particular, 
the  life  in  the  man-animal  is  very  like  the  life 
in  the  other  animals. 

f    And  still  another  change  is  coming  in  human 
affairs.     Though   politicians  gnash   their  teeth 


18  THE  HUMAN  DEIFT 

and  cry  anathema,  and  man,  whose  superficial 
book-learning  is  vitiated  by  crystallised  prejudice, 
assure  us  that  civilisation  will  go  to  smash,  the 
trend  of  society,  to-day,  the  world  over,  is  toward 
socialism.  The  old  individualism  is  passing. 
The  state  interferes  more  and  more  in  affairs 
that  hitherto  have  been  considered  sacredly  pri 
vate.  And  socialism,  when  the  last  word  is  said, 
is  merely  a  new  economic  and  political  system 
whereby  more  men  can  get  food  to  eat.  In  short, 
socialism  is  an  improved  food-getting  efficiency. 
Furthermore,  not  only  will  socialism  get  food 
more  easily  and  in  greater  quantity,  but  it  will 
achieve  a  more  equitable  distribution  of  that 
food.  Socialism  promises,  for  a  time,  to  give  all 
men,  women,  and  children  all  they  want  to  eat, 
and  to  enable  them  to  eat  all  they  want  as  often 
as  they  want.  Subsistence  will  be  pushed  back, 
temporarily,  an  exceedingly  long  way.  In  con 
sequence,  the  flood  of  life  will  rise  like  a  tidal 
wave.  There  will  be  more  marriages  and  more 
children  born.  The  enforced  sterility  that  ob 
tains  to-day  for  many  millions,  will  no  longer 
obtain.  Nor  will  the  fecund  millions  in  the 
slums  and  labour-ghettos,  who  to-day  die  of  all 
the  ills  due  to  chronic  underfeeding  and  over 
crowding,  and  who  die  with  their  fecundity 


THE  HUMAN  DRIFT  19 

largely  unrealised,  die  in  that  future  day  when 
the  increased  food-getting  efficiency  of  socialism 
will  give  them  all  they  want  to  eat. 

It  is  undeniable  that  population  will  increase 
prodigiously  —  just  as  it  has  increased  prodigi 
ously  during  the  last  few  centuries,  following 
upon  the  increase  in  food-getting  efficiency.  The 
magnitude  of  population  in  that  future  day  is 
well  nigh  unthinkable.  But  there  is  only  so 
much  land  and  water  on  the  surface  of  the  earth. 
Man,  despite  his  marvellous  accomplishments, 
will  never  be  able  to  increase  the  diameter  of  the 
planet.  The  old  days  of  virgin  continents  will 
be  gone.  The  habitable  planet,  from  ice-cap  to 
ice-cap,  will  be  inhabited.  And  in  the  matter 
of  food-getting,  as  in  everything  else,  man  is  only 
finite.  Undreamed  efficiencies  in  food-getting 
may  be  achieved,  but,  soon  or  late,  man  will  find 
himself  face  to  face  with  Malthus'  grim  law. 
Not  only  will  population  catch  up  with  subsist 
ence,  but  it  will  press  against  subsistence,  and 
the  pressure  will  be  pitiless  and  savage.  Some 
where  in  the  future  is  a  date  when  man  will 
face,  consciously,  the  bitter  fact  that  there  is  not 
food  enough  for  all  of  him  to  eat. 

When  this  day  comes,  what  then?  Will  there 
be  a  recrudescence  of  old  obsolete  war?  In  a 


20  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

saturated  population  life  is  always  cheap,  as  it 
is  cheap  in  China,  in  India,  to-day.  Will  new 
human  drifts  take  place,  questing  for  room,  carv 
ing  earth-space  out  of  crowded  life?  Will  the 
Sword  again  sing: 

"Follow,  O  follow,  then, 
Heroes,  my  harvesters! 
Where  the  tall  grain  is  ripe 
Thrust  in  your  sickles ! 
Stripped  and  adust 
In  a  stubble  of  empire 
Scything  and  binding 
The  full  sheaves  of  sovranty." 

Even  if,  as  of  old,  man  should  wander  hungrily, 
sword  in  hand,  slaying  and  being  slain,  the  relief 
would  be  only  temporary.  Even  if  one  race 
alone  should  hew  down  the  last  survivor  of  all 
the  other  races,  that  one  race,  drifting  the  world 
around,  would  saturate  the  planet  with  its  own 
life  and  again  press  against  subsistence.  And 
in  that  day,  the  death  rate  and  the  birth  rate 
will  have  to  balance.  Men  will  have  to  die,  or 
be  prevented  from  being  born.  Undoubtedly  a 
higher  quality  of  life  will  obtain,  and  also  a 
slowly  decreasing  fecundity.  But  this  decrease 
will  be  so  slow  that  the  pressure  against  subsis 
tence  will  remain.  The  control  of  progeny  will 
be  one  of  the  most  important  problems  of  man 


THE  HUMAN  DRIFT  21 

and  one  of  the  most  important  functions  of  the 
state.  Men  will  simply  be  not  permitted  to  be 
born. 

Disease,,  from  time  to  time,  will  ease  the  pres 
sure.  Diseases  are  parasites,  and  it  must  not 
be  forgotten  that  just  as  there  are  drifts  in  the 
world  of  man,  so  are  there  drifts  in  the  world 
of  micro-organisms  —  hunger-quests  for  food. 
Little  is  known  of  the  micro-organic  world,  but 
that  little  is  appalling;  and  no  census  of  it  will 
ever  be  taken,  for  there  is  the  true,  literal  "  abys 
mal  fecundity."  Multitudinous  as  man  is,  all 
his  totality  of  individuals  is  as  nothing  in  com 
parison  with  the  inconceivable  vastness  of  num 
bers  of  the  micro-organisms.  In  your  body,  or 
in  mine,  right  now,  are  swarming  more  individ 
ual  entities  than  there  are  human  beings  in  the 
world  to-day.  It  is  to  us  an  invisible  world. 
We  only  guess  its  nearest  confines.  With  our 
powerful  microscopes  and  ultramicroscopes,  en 
larging  diameters  twenty  thousand  times,  we 
catch  but  the  slightest  glimpses  of  that  profun 
dity  of  infinitesimal  life. 

Little  is  known  of  that  world,  save  in  a  gen 
eral  way.  We  know  that  out  of  it  arise  diseases, 
new  to  us,  that  afflict  and  destroy  man.  We  do 
not  know  whether  these  diseases  are  merely  the 


22  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

drifts,  in  a  fresh  direction,  of  already-existing 
breeds  of  micro-organisms,  or  whether  they  are 
new,  absolutely  new,  breeds  themselves  just  spon 
taneously  generated.  The  latter  hypothesis  is 
tenable,  for  we  theorise  that  if  spontaneous  gen 
eration  still  occurs  on  the  earth,  it  is  far  more 
likely  to  occur  in  the  form  of  simple  organisms 
than  of  complicated  organisms. 

Another  thing  we  know,  and  that  is  that  it 
is  in  crowded  populations  that  new  diseases 
arise.  They  have  done  so  in  the  past.  They  do 
so  to-day.  And  no  matter  how  wise  are  our 
physicians  and  bacteriologists,  no  matter  how 
successfully  they  cope  with  these  invaders,  new 
invaders  continue  to  arise  —  new  drifts  of  hun 
gry  life  seeking  to  devour  us.  And  so  we  are 
justified  in  believing  that  in  the  saturated  popu 
lations  of  the  future,  when  life  is  suffocating  in 
the  pressure  against  subsistence,  that  new,  and 
ever  new,  hosts  of  destroying  micro-organisms 
will  continue  to  arise  and  fling  themselves  upon 
earth-crowded  man  to  give  him  room.  There 
may  even  be  plagues  of  unprecedented  ferocity 
that  will  depopulate  great  areas  before  the  wit 
of  man  can  overcome  them.  And  this  we  know : 
that  no  matter  how  often  these  invisible  hosts 
may  be  overcome  by  man's  becoming  immune 


THE  HUMAN  DRIFT  23 

to  them  through  a  cruel  and  terrible  selection, 
new  hosts  will  ever  arise  of  these  micro-organ 
isms  that  were  in  the  world  before  he  came  and 
that  will  be  here  after  he  is  gone. 

After  he  is  gone?  Will  he  then  some  day  be 
gone,  and  this  planet  know  him  no  more?  Is  it 
thence  that  the  human  drift  in  all  its  totality 
is  trending?  God  Himself  is  silent  on  this  point, 
though  some  of  his  prophets  have  given  us  vivid 
representations  of  that  last  day  when  the  earth 
shall  pass  into  nothingness.  Nor  does  science, 
despite  its  radium  speculations  and  its  attempted 
analyses  of  the  ultimate  nature  of  matter,  give  us 
any  other  word  than  that  man  will  pass.  So  far 
as  man's  knowledge  goes,  law  is  universal. 
Elements  react  under  certain  unchangeable  con 
ditions.  One  of  these  conditions  is  temperature. 
Whether  it  be  in  the  test  tube  of  the  laboratory 
or  the  workshop  of  nature,  all  organic  chemical 
reactions  take  place  only  within  a  restricted 
range  of  heat.  Man,  the  latest  of  the  ephemera, 
is  pitifully  a  creature  of  temperature,  strutting 
his  brief  day  on  the  thermometer.  Behind  him 
is  a  past  wherein  it  was  too  warm  for  him  to 
exist.  Ahead  of  him  is  a  future  wherein  it  will 
be  too  cold  for  him  to  exist.  He  cannot  adjust 
himself  to  that  future,  because  he  cannot  alter 


24  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

universal  law,  because  he  cannot  alter  his  own 
construction  nor  the  molecules  that  compose  him. 
It  would  be  well  to  ponder  these  lines  of  Her 
bert  Spencer's  which  follow,  and  which  embody, 
possibly,  the  wildest  vision  the  scientific  mind 
has  ever  achieved: 

"  Motion  as  well  as  Matter  being  fixed  in  quan 
tity,  it  would  seem  that  the  change  in  the  distri 
bution  of  Matter  which  Motion  effects,  coming 
to  a  limit  in  whichever  direction  it  is  carried, 
the  indestructible  Motion  thereupon  necessitates 
a  reverse  distribution.  Apparently,  the  univer- 
sally-co-existent  forces  of  attraction  and  repul 
sion,  which,  as  we  have  seen,  necessitates  rhythm 
in  all  minor  changes  throughout  the  Universe, 
also  necessitates  rhythm  in  the  totality  of  its 
changes  —  produce  now  an  immeasurable  period 
during  which  the  attractive  forces  predominat 
ing,  cause  universal  concentration,  and  then  an 
immeasurable  period  during  which  the  repulsive 
forces  predominating,  cause  universal  diffusion 
—  alternate  eras  of  Evolution  and  Dissolution. 
And  thus  there  is  suggested  the  conception  of  a 
past  during  which  there  have  been  successive 
Evolutions  analogous  to  that  which  is  now  going 
on;  a  future  during  which  successive  other  Evo- 


THE  HUMAN  DRIFT  25 

lutions  may  go  on  —  ever  the  same  in  principle 
but  never  the  same  in  concrete  result." 

That  is  it  —  the  most  we  know  —  alternate 
eras  of  evolution  and  dissolution.  In  the  past 
there  have  been  other  evolutions  similar  to  that 
one  in  which  we  live,  and  in  the  future  there  may 
be  other  similar  evolutions  —  that  is  all.  The 
principle  of  all  these  evolutions  remains,  but 
the  concrete  results  are  never  twice  alike.  Man 
was  not;  he  was;  and  again  he  will  not  be.  In 
eternity  which  is  beyond  our  comprehension,  the 
particular  evolution  of  that  solar  satellite  we  call 
the  "  Earth  "  occupied  but  a  slight  fraction  of 
time.  And  of  that  fraction  of  time  man  occupies 
but  a  small  portion.  All  the  whole  human  drift, 
from  the  first  ape-man  to  the  last  savant,  is  but 
a  phantom,  a  flash  of  light  and  a  flutter  of  move 
ment  across  the  infinite  face  of  the  starry  night. 

When  the  thermometer  drops,  man  ceases  — 
with  all  his  lusts  and  wrestlings  and  achieve 
ments;  with  all  his  race-adventures  and  race- 
tragedies;  and  with  all  his  red  killings,  billions 
upon  billions  of  human  lives  multiplied  by  as 
many  billions  more.  This  is  the  last  word  of 
Science,  unless  there  be  some  further,  unguessed 
word  which  Science  will  some  day  find  and  utter. 
In  the  meantime  it  sees  no  farther  than  the 


26  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

starry  void,  where  the  "  fleeting  systems  lapse 
like  foam."  Of  what  ledger-account  is  the  tiny 
life  of  man  in  a  vastness  where  stars  snuff  out 
like  candles  and  great  suns  blaze  for  a  time-tick 
of  eternity  and  are  gone? 

And  for  us  who  live,  no  worse  can  happen  than 
has  happened  to  the  earliest  drifts  of  man, 
marked  to-day  by  ruined  cities  of  forgotten  civ 
ilisation —  ruined  cities,  which,  on  excavation, 
are  found  to  rest  on  ruins  of  earlier  cities,  city 
upon  city,  and  fourteen  cities,  down  to  a  stratum 
where,  still  earlier,  wandering  herdsmen  drove 
their  flocks,  and  where,  even  preceding  them,  wild 
hunters  chased  their  prey  long  after  the  cave 
man  and  the  man  of  the  squatting-place  cracked 
the  knuckle-bones  of  wild  animals  and  vanished 
from  the  earth.  There  is  nothing  terrible  about 
it.  With  Richard  Hovey,  when  he  faced  his 
death,  we  can  say :  "  Behold !  I  have  lived !  " 
And  with  another  and  greater  one,  we  can  lay 
ourselves  down  with  a  will.  The  one  drop  of 
living,  the  one  taste  of  being,  has  been  good ;  and 
perhaps  our  greatest  achievement  will  be  that 
we  dreamed  immortality,  even  though  we  failed 
to  realise  it. 


TWO 

NOTHING  THAT  EVEE  CAME  TO  ANYTHING 

IT  was  at  Quito,  the  mountain  capital  of  Ecua 
dor,  that  the  following  passage  at  correspond 
ence  took  place.  Having  occasion  to  buy  a  pair 
of  shoes  in  a  shop  six  feet  by  eight  in  size  and  with 
walls  three  feet  thick,  I  noticed  a  mangy  leopard 
skin  on  the  floor.  I  had  no  Spanish.  The  shop 
keeper  had  no  English.  But  I  was  an  adept  at 
sign  language.  I  wanted  to  know  where  I  should 
go  to  buy  leopard  skins.  On  my  scribble-pad 
I  drew  the  interesting  streets  of  a  city.  Then 
I  drew  a  small  shop,  which,  after  much  effort,  I 
persuaded  the  proprietor  into  recognising  as  his 
shop.  Next,  I  indicated  in  my  drawing  that  on 
the  many  streets  there  were  many  shops.  And, 
finally,  I  made  myself  into  a  living  interrogation 
mark,  pointing  all  the  while  from  the  mangy 
leopard  skin  to  the  many  shops  I  had  sketched. 
But  the  proprietor  failed  to  follow  me.  So 
did  his  assistant.  The  street  came  in  to  help  — 
that  is,  as  many  as  could  crowd  into  the  six-by- 
eight  shop ;  while  those  that  could  not  force  their 

27 


28  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

way  in  held  an  overflow  meeting  on  the  sidewalk. 
The  proprietor  and  the  rest  took  turns  at  talking 
to  me  in  rapid-fire  Spanish,  and,  from  the  ex 
pressions  on  their  faces,  all  concluded  that  I 
was  remarkably  stupid.  Again  I  went  through 
my  programme,  pointing  on  the  sketch  from  the 
one  shop  to  the  many  shops,  pointing  out  that  in 
this  particular  shop  was  one  leopard  skin,  and 
then  questing  interrogatively  with  my  pencil 
among  all  the  shops.  All  regarded  me  in  blank 
silence,  until  I  saw  comprehension  suddenly 
dawn  on  the  face  of  a  small  boy. 

"  Tigres  montanya !  "  he  cried. 

This  appealed  to  me  as  mountain  tigers, 
namely,  leopards;  and  in  token  that  he  under 
stood,  the  boy  made  signs  for  me  to  follow  him, 
which  I  obeyed.  He  led  me  for  a  quarter  of  a 
mile,  and  paused  before  the  doorway  of  a  large 
building  where  soldiers  slouched  on  sentry  duty 
and  in  and  out  of  which  went  other  soldiers. 
Motioning  for  me  to  remain,  he  ran  inside. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  he  was  out  again,  with 
out  leopard  skins,  but  full  of  information.  By 
means  of  my  card,  of  my  hotel  card,  of  my  watch, 
and  of  the  boy's  fingers,  I  learned  the  following : 
that  at  six  o'clock  that  evening  he  would  arrive 


NOTHING  CAME  TO  ANYTHING      29 

at  my  hotel  with  ten  leopard  skins  for  my 
inspection.  Further,  I  learned  that  the  skins 
were  the  property  of  one  Captain  Ernesto 
Becucci.  Also,  I  learned  that  the  boy's  name 
was  Eliceo. 

The  boy  was  prompt.  At  six  o'clock  he  was 
at  my  room.  In  his  hand  was  a  small  roll  ad 
dressed  to  me.  On  opening  it  I  found  it  to  be 
manuscript  piano  music,  the  Hora  Tranquila 
Valse,  or  "  Tranquil  Hour  Waltz,"  by  Ernesto 
Becucci.  I  came  for  leopard  skins  thought  I, 
and  the  owner  sends  me  sheet  music  instead. 
But  the  boy  assured  me  that  he  would  have  the 
skins  at  the  hotel  at  nine  next  morning,  and  I 
entrusted  to  him  the  following  letter  of  acknowl 
edgment  : 

Dear  Captain  Becucci : 

A  thousand  thanks  for  your  kind  presentation  of  Hora 
Tranquila  Valse.  Mrs.  London  will  play  it  for  ine  this  even 
ing. 

Sincerely  yours, 

JACK  LONDON. 

Next  morning  Eliceo  was  back,  but  without 
the  skins.  Instead,  he  gave  me  a  letter,  written 
in  Spanish,  of  which  the  following  is  a  free  trans 
lation  : 


30  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

To  my  dearest  and  always  appreciated  friend,  I  submit  my 
self— 
Dear  sir : 

I  sent  you  last  night  an  offering  by  the  bearer  of  this  note, 
and  you  returned  me  a  letter  which  I  translated. 

Be  it  known  to  you,  sir,  that  I  am  giving  this  waltz  away 
in  the  best  society,  and  therefore  to  your  honoured  self. 
Therefore  it  is  beholden  to  you  to  recognise  the  attention, 
I  mean  by  a  tangible  return,  as  this  composition  was  made 
by  myself.  You  will  therefore  send  by  your  humble  servant, 
the  bearer,  any  offering,  however  minute,  that  you  may  be 
prompted  to  make.  Send  it  under  cover  of  an  envelope. 
The  bearer  may  be  trusted. 

I  did  not  indulge  in  the  pleasure  of  visiting  your  honour 
able  self  this  morning,  as  I  find  my  body  not  to  be  enjoying 
the  normal  exercise  of  its  functions. 

As  regards  the  skins  from  the  mountain,  you  shall  be 
waited  on  by  a  small  boy  at  seven  o'clock  at  night  with  ten 
skins  from  which  you  may  select  those  which  most  satisfy 
your  aspirations. 

In  the  hope  that  you  will  look  upon  this  in  the  same  light 
as  myself,  I  beg  to  be  allowed  to  remain, 
Your  most  faithful  servant, 

CAPITAN  EBNESTO  BECUCCI. 


Well,  thought  I,  this  Captain  Ernesto  Becucci 
has  shown  himself  to  be  such  an  undependable 
person,  that,  while  I  don't  mind  rewarding  him 
for  his  composition,  I  fear  me  if  I  do  I  never 
shall  lay  eyes  on  those  leopard  skins.  So  to 
Eliceo  I  gave  this  letter  for  the  Captain : 


NOTHING  CAME  TO  ANYTHING      31 

My  dear  Captain  Becucci : 

Have  the  boy  bring  the  skins  at  seven  o'clock  this  evening, 
when  I  shall  be  glad  to  look  at  them.  This  evening  when  the 
boy  brings  the  skins,  I  shall  be  pleased  to  give  him,  in  an  en 
velope,  for  you,  a  tangible  return  for  your  musical  compo 
sition. 

Please  put  the  price  on  each  skin,  and  also  let  me  know 
for  what  sum  all  the  skins  will  sell  together. 

Sincerely  yours, 

JACK  LONDON. 

Now,  thought  I,  I  have  him.  No  skins,  no 
tangible  return;  and  evidently  he  is  set  on  re 
ceiving  that  tangible  return. 

At  seven  o'clock  Eliceo  was  back,  but  without 
leopard  skins.  He  handed  me  this  letter : 

Senor  London : 

I  wish  to  instil  in  you  the  belief  that  I  lost  to-day,  at 
half  past  three  in  the  afternoon,  the  key  to  my  cubicle. 
While  distributing  rations  to  the  soldiers  I  dropped  it.  I 
see  in  this  loss  the  act  of  God. 

I  received  a  letter  from  your  honourable  self,  delivered 
by  the  one  who  bears  you  this  poor  response  of  mine.  To 
morrow  I  will  burst  open  the  door  to  permit  me  to  keep  my 
word  with  you.  I  feel  myself  eternally  shamed  not  to  be 
able  to  dominate  the  evils  that  afflict  colonial  mankind. 
Please  send  me  the  trifle  that  you  offered  me.  Send  me 
this  proof  of  your  appreciation  by  the  bearer,  who  is  to 
be  trusted.  Also  give  to  him  a  small  sum  of  money  for 
himself,  and  earn  the  undying  gratitude  of 

Your  most  faithful  servant, 

CAPITAN  EBNESTO  BECUCCI. 


32  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

Also,  inclosed  in  the  foregoing  letter  was  the 
following  original  poem,  apropos  neither  of 
leopard  skins  nor  tangible  returns,  so  far  as  I 
can  make  out: 

EFFUSION 

Thou  canst  not  weep; 
Nor  ask  I  for  a  year 
To  rid  me  of  my  woes 
Or  make  my  life  more  dear. 

The  mystic  chains  that  bound 
Thy  all-fond  heart  to  mine, 
Alas!  asundered  are 
For  now  and  for  all  time. 

In  vain  you  strove  to  hide, 
From  vulgar  gaze  of  man, 
The  burning  glance  of  love 
That  none  but  Love  can  scan. 

Go  on  thy  starlit  way 
And  leave  me  to  my  fate ; 
Our  souls  must  needs  unite  — 
But,  God!  'twill  be  too  late. 

To  all  and  sundry  of  which  I  replied : 

My  dear  Captain  Becucci : 

I  regret  exceedingly  to  hear  that  by  act  of  God,  at  half 
past  three  this  afternoon,  you  lost  the  key  to  your  cubicle. 
Please  have  the  boy  bring  the  skins  at  seven  o'clock  to 
morrow  morning,  at  which  time,  when  he  brings  the  skins, 


NOTHING  CAME  TO  ANYTHING      33 

I  shall  be  glad  to  make  you  that  tangible  return  for  your 
"  Tranquil  Hour  Waltz." 

Sincerely  yours, 

JACK  LONDON. 

At  seven  o'clock  came  no  skins,  but  the  fol 
lowing  : 

Sir: 

After  offering  you  my  most  sincere  respects,  I  beg  to  con 
tinue  by  telling  you  that  no  one,  up  to  the  time  of  writing, 
has  treated  me  with  such  lack  of  attention.  It  was  a  pres 
ent  to  gentlemen  who  were  to  retain  the  piece  of  music, 
and  who  have  all,  without  exception,  made  me  a  present  of 
five  dollars.  It  is  beyond  my  humble  capacity  to  believe 
that  you,  after  having  offered  to  send  me  money  in  an 
envelope,  should  fail  to  do  so. 

Send  me,  I  pray  of  you,  the  money  to  remunerate  the 
small  boy  for  his  repeated  visits  to  you.  Please  be  discreet 
and  send  it  in  an  envelope  by  the  bearer. 

Last  night  I  came  to  the  hotel  with  the  boy.  You  were 
dining.  I  waited  more  than  an  hour  for  you  and  then  went 
to  the  theatre.  Give  the  boy  some  small  amount,  and  send 
me  a  like  offering  of  larger  proportions. 

Awaiting  incessantly  a  slight  attention  on  your  part, 

CAPITA N  ERNESTO  BECUCCI. 


And  here,  like  one  of  George  Moore's  realistic 
studies,  ends  this  intercourse  with  Captain 
Ernesto  Becucci.  Nothing  happened.  Nothing 
ever  came  to  anything.  He  got  no  tangible  re 
turn,  and  I  got  no  leopard  skins.  The  tangible 


34  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

return  he  might  have  got,  I  presented  to  Eliceo, 
who  promptly  invested  it  in  a  pair  of  trousers 
and  a  ticket  to  the  bull-fight. 

(NOTE  TO  EDITOR. —  This  is  a  faithful  narration  of  what 
actually  happened  in  Quito,  Ecuador.) 


THREE 

THAT  DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER 

THE  month  in  which  my  seventeenth  birth 
day  arrived  I  signed  on  before  the  mast 
on  the  Sophie  Sutherland,  a  three-topmast 
schooner  bound  on  a  seven-months'  seal-hunting 
cruise  to  the  coast  of  Japan.  We  sailed  from 
San  Francisco,  and  immediately  I  found  con 
fronting  me  a  problem  of  no  inconsiderable  pro 
portions.  There  were  twelve  men  of  us  in  the 
forecastle,  ten  of  whom  were  hardened,  tarry- 
thumbed  sailors.  Not  alone  was  I  a  youth  and 
on  my  first  voyage,  but  I  had  for  shipmates  men  \f 
who  had  come  through  the  hard  school  of  the 
merchant  service  of  Europe.  As  boys,  they  had 
had  to  perform  their  ship's  duty,  and,  in  addi 
tion,  by  immemorial  sea  custom,  they  had  had  to 
be  the  slaves  of  the  ordinary  and  able-bodied 
seamen.  When  they  became  ordinary  seamen 
they  were  still  the  slaves  of  the  able-bodied. 
Thus,  in  the  forecastle,  with  the  watch  below,  an 
able  seaman,  lying  in  his  bunk,  will  order  an 

35 


36  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

ordinary  seaman  to  fetch  him  his  shoes  or  bring 
him  a  drink  of  water.  Now  the  ordinary  sea 
man  may  be  lying  in  his  bunk.  He  is  just  as 
tired  as  the  able  seaman.  Yet  he  must  get  out 
of  his  bunk  and  fetch  and  carry.  If  he  refuses, 
he  will  be  beaten.  If,  perchance,  he  is  so  strong 
that  he  can  whip  the  able  seaman,  then  all  the 
able  seamen,  or  as  many  as  may  be  necessary, 
pitch  upon  the  luckless  devil  and  administer  the 
beating. 

My  problem  now  becomes  apparent.  These 
hard-bit  Scandinavian  sailors  had  come  through 
a  hard  school.  As  boys  they  had  served  their 
mates,  and  as  able  seamen  they  looked  to  be 
served  by  other  boys.  I  was  a  boy  —  withal  with 
a  man's  body.  I  had  never  been  to  sea  before  — 
withal  I  was  a  good  sailor  and  knew  my  business. 
It  was  either  a  case  of  holding  my  own  with  them 
or  of  going  under.  I  had  signed  on  as  an  equal, 
and  an  equal  I  must  maintain  myself,  or  else 
endure  seven  months  of  hell  at  their  hands.  And 
it  was  this  very  equality  they  resented.  By  what 
right  was  I  an  equal?  I  had  not  earned  that 
high  privilege.  I  had  not  endured  the  miseries 
they  had  endured  as  maltreated  boys  or  bullied 
ordinaries.  Worse  than  that,  I  was  a  land-lub 
ber  making  his  first  voyage.  And  yet,  by  the  in- 


THAT  DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER     37 

justice  of  fate,  on  the  ship's  articles  I  was  their 
equal. 

My  method  was  deliberate,  and  simple,  and 
drastic.  In  the  first  place,  I  resolved  to  do  my 
work,  no  matter  how  hard  or  dangerous  it  might 
be,  so  well  that  no  man  would  be  called  upon  to 
do  it  for  me.  Further,  I  put  ginger  in  my 
muscles.  I  never  malingered  when  pulling  on  a 
rope,  for  I  knew  the  eagle  eyes  of  my  forecastle 
mates  were  squinting  for  just  such  evidences  of 
my  inferiority.  I  made  it  a  point  to  be  among 
the  first  of  the  watch  going  on  deck,  among  the 
last  going  below,  never  leaving  a  sheet  or  tackle 
for  some  one  else  to  coil  over  a  pin.  I  was  al 
ways  eager  for  the  run  aloft  for  the  shifting  of 
topsail  sheets  and  tacks,  or  for  the  setting  or  tak 
ing  in  of  topsails ;  and  in  these  matters  I  did  more 
than  my  share. 

Furthermore,  I  was  on  a  hair-trigger  of  re 
sentment  myself.  I  knew  better  than  to  accept 
any  abuse  or  the  slightest  patronizing.  At  the 
first  hint  of  such,  I  went  off  —  I  exploded.  I 
might  be  beaten  in  the  subsequent  fight,  but  I  left 
the  impression  that  I  was  a  wild-cat  and  that  I 
would  just  as  willingly  fight  again.  My  inten 
tion  was  to  demonstrate  that  I  would  tolerate  no 
imposition.  I  proved  that  the  man  who  im- 


38  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

posed  on  me  must  have  a  fight  on  his  hands. 
And,  doing  my  work  well,  the  innate  justice  of 
the  men,  assisted  by  their  wholesome  dislike  for 
a  clawing  and  rending  wild-cat  ruction,  soon  led 
them  to  give  over  their  hectoring.  After  a  bit  of 
strife,  my  attitude  was  accepted,  and  it  was  my 
pride  that  I  was  taken  in  as  an  equal  in  spirit  as 
well  as  in  fact.  From  then  on,  everything  was 
beautiful,  and  the  voyage  promised  to  be  a  happy 
one. 

But  there  was  one  other  man  in  the  forecastle. 
Counting  the  Scandinavians  as  ten,  and  myself 
as  the  eleventh,  this  man  was  the  twelfth  and 
last.  We  never  knew  his  name,  contenting  our 
selves  with  calling  him  the  "  Bricklayer."  He 
was  from  Missouri  —  at  least  he  so  informed  us 
in  the  one  meagre  confidence  he  was  guilty  of  in 
the  early  days  of  the  voyage.  Also,  at  that  time, 
we  learned  several  other  things.  He  was  a  brick 
layer  by  trade.  He  had  never  even  seen  salt 
water  until  the  week  before  he  joined  us,  at  which 
time  he  had  arrived  in  San  Francisco  and  looked 
upon  San  Francisco  Bay.  Why  he,  of  all  men, 
at  forty  years  of  age,  should  have  felt  the  prod 
to  go  to  sea,  was  beyond  all  of  us ;  for  it  was  our 
unanimous  conviction  that  no  man  less  fitted 
for  the  sea  had  ever  embarked  on  it.  But  to  sea 


THAT  DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER     39 

he  had  come.  After  a  week's  stay  in  a  sailors' 
boarding-house,  he  had  been  shoved  aboard  of 
us  as  an  able  seaman. 

All  hands  had  to  do  his  work  for  him.  Not 
only  did  he  know  nothing,  but  he  proved  himself 
unable  to  learn  anything.  Try  as  they  would, 
they  could  never  teach  him  to  steer.  To  him  the 
compass  must  have  been  a  profound  and  awful 
whirligig.  He  never  mastered  its  cardinal 
points,  much  less  the  checking  and  steadying  of 
the  ship  on  her  course.  He  never  did  come  to 
know  whether  ropes  should  be  coiled  from  left  to 
right  or  from  right  to  left.  It  was  mentally  im 
possible  for  him  to  learn  the  easy  muscular  trick 
of  throwing  his  wreight  on  a  rope  in  pulling  and 
hauling.  The  simplest  knots  and  turns  were  be 
yond  his  comprehension,  while  he  was  mortally 
afraid  of  going  aloft.  Bullied  by  captain  and 
mate,  he  was  one  day  forced  aloft.  He  managed 
to  get  underneath  the  crosstrees,  and  there  he 
froze  to  the  ratlines.  Two  sailors  had  to  go  after 
him  to  help  him  down. 

All  of  which  was  bad  enough  had  there  been 
no  worse.  But  he  was  vicious,  malignant,  dirty, 
and  without  common  decency.  He  was  a  tall, 
powerful  man,  and  he  fought  with  everybody. 
And  there  was  no  fairness  in  his  fighting.  His 


40  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

first  fight  on  board,  the  first  day  out,  was  with 
me,  when  he,  desiring  to  cut  a  plug  of  chewing 
tobacco,  took  my  personal  table-knife  for  the 
purpose,  and  whereupon,  I,  on  a  hair-trigger, 
promptly  exploded.  After  that  he  fought  with 
nearly  every  member  of  the  crew.  When  his 
clothing  became  too  filthy  to  be  bearable  by  the 
rest  of  us,  we  put  it  to  soak  and  stood  over  him 
while  he  washed  it.  In  short,  the  Bricklayer  was 
one  of  those  horrible  and  monstrous  things  that 
one  must  see  in  order  to  be  convinced  that  they 
exist. 

I  will  only  say  that  he  was  a  beast,  and  that  \ 
we  treated  him  like  a  beast.     It  is  only  by  look- 1 
ing  back  through  the  years  that  I  realise  how 
heartless  we  were  to  him.     He  was  without  sin. 
He  could  not,  by  the  very  nature  of  things,  have 
been  anything  else  than  he  was.     He  had  not 
made  himself,  and  for  his  making  he  was  not 
responsible.     Yet  we  treated  him  as  a  free  agent 
and  held  him  personally  responsible  for  all  that 
he  was  and  that  he  should  not  have  been.    As  a 
result,  our  treatment  of  him  was  as  terrible  as 
he  was  himself  terrible.     Finally  we  gave  him  ' 
the  silent  treatment,  and  for  weeks  before  he 
died  we  neither  spoke  to  him  nor  did  he  speak 
to  us.     And  for  weeks  he  moved  among  us,  or 


THAT  DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER     41 

lay  in  his  bunk  in  our  crowded  house,  grinning 
at  us  his  hatred  and  malignancy.  He  was  a  dy 
ing  man,  and  he  knew  it,  and  we  knew  it.  And 
furthermore,  he  knew  that  we  wanted  him  to  die. 
He  cumbered  our  life  with  his  presence,  and  ours 
was  a  rough  life  that  made  rough  men  of  us. 
And  so  he  died,  in  a  small  space  crowded  by 
twelve  men  and  as  much  alone  as  if  he  had  died 
on  some  desolate  mountain  peak.  No  kindly 
word,  no  last  word,  was  passed  between.  He 
died  as  he  had  lived,  a  beast,  and  he  died  hating 
us  and  hated  by  us. 

And  now  I  come  to  the  most  startling  moment 
of  my  life.  No  sooner  was  he  dead  than  he  was 
flung  overboard.  He  died  in  a  night  of  wind, 
drawing  his  last  breath  as  the  men  tumbled  into 
their  oilskins  to  the  cry  of  "  All  hands !  "  And 
he  was  flung  overboard,  several  hours  later,  on  a 
day  of  wind.  Not  even  a  canvas  wrapping 
graced  his  mortal  remains;  nor  was  he  deemed 
worthy  of  bars  of  iron  at  his  feet.  We  sewed 
him  up  in  the  blankets  in  which  he  died  and  laid 
him  on  a  hatch-cover  for'ard  of  the  main-hatch 
on  the  port  side.  A  gunnysack,  half-full  of  gal 
ley  coal,  was  fastened  to  his  feet. 

It  was  bitter  cold.  The  wreather-side  of  every 
rope,  spar,  and  stay  was  coated  with  ice,  while 


42  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

all  the  rigging  was  a  harp,  singing  and  shouting 
under  the  fierce  hand  of  the  wind.  The  schooner, 
hove  to,  lurched  and  floundered  through  the  sea, 
rolling  her  scuppers  under  and  perpetually  flood 
ing  the  deck  with  icy  salt  water.  We  of  the 
forecastle  stood  in  sea-boots  and  oilskins.  Our 
hands  were  mittened,  but  our  heads  were  bared 
in  the  presence  of  the  death  we  did  not  respect. 
Our  ears  stung  and  numbed  and  whitened,  and 
we  yearned  for  the  body  to  be  gone.  But  the 
interminable  reading  of  the  burial  service  went 
on.  The  captain  had  mistaken  his  place,  and 
while  he  read  on  without  purpose  we  froze  our 
ears  and  resented  this  final  hardship  thrust  upon 
us  by  the  helpless  cadaver.  As  from  the  begin 
ning,  so  to  the  end,  everything  had  gone  wrong 
with  the  Bricklayer.  Finally,  the  captain's  son, 
irritated  beyond  measure,  jerked  the  book  from 
the  palsied  fingers  of  the  old  man  and  found  the 
place.  Again  the  quavering  voice  of  the  captain 
arose.  Then  came  the  cue :  "  And  the  body 
shall  be  cast  into  the  sea."  We  elevated  one 
end  of  the  hatch-cover,  and  the  Bricklayer 
plunged  outboard  and  was  gone. 

Back  into  the  forecastle  we  cleaned  house, 
washing  out  the  dead  man's  bunk  and  remov 
ing  every  vestige  of  him.  By  sea  law  and  sea 


THAT  DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER     43 

custom,  we  should  have  gathered  his  effects  to 
gether  and  turned  them  over  to  the  captain,  who, 
later,  would  have  held  an  auction  in  which  we 
should  have  bid  for  the  various  articles.  But  no 
man  wanted  them,  so  we  tossed  them  up  on  deck 
and  overboard  in  the  wake  of  the  departed  body 
—  the  last  ill-treatment  we  could  devise  to  wreak 
upon  the  one  we  had  hated  so.  Oh,  it  was  raw, 
believe  me;  but  the  life  we  lived  was  raw,  and 
we  were  as  raw  as  the  life. 

The  Bricklayer's  bunk  was  better  than  mine. 
Less  sea  water  leaked  down  through  the  deck 
into  it,  and  the  light  was  better  for  lying  in  bed 
and  reading.  Partly  for  this  reason  I  proceeded 
to  move  into  his  bunk.  My  other  reason  was 
pride.  I  saw  the  sailors  were  superstitious,  and 
by  this  act  I  determined  to  show  that  I  was 
braver  than  they.  I  would  cap  my  proved  equal 
ity  by  a  deed  that  would  compel  their  recogni 
tion  of  my  superiority.  Oh,  the  arrogance  of 
youth!  But  let  that  pass.  The  sailors  were 
appalled  by  my  intention.  One  and  all,  they 
warned  me  that  in  the  history  of  the  sea  no  man 
had  taken  a  dead  man's  bunk  and  lived  to  the  end 
of  the  voyage.  They  instanced  case  after  case 
in  their  personal  experience.  I  was  obdurate. 
Then  they  begged  and  pleaded  with  me,  and  my 


44  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

pride  was  tickled  in  that  they  showed  they  really 
liked  me  and  were  concerned  about  me.  This 
but  served  to  confirm  me  in  my  madness.  I 
moved  in,  and,  lying  in  the  dead  man's  bunk,  all 
afternoon  and  evening  listened  to  dire  prophe 
cies  of  my  future.  Also  were  told  stories  of  aw 
ful  deaths  and  grewsome  ghosts  that  secretly 
shivered  the  hearts  of  all  of  us.  Saturated  with 
this,  yet  scoffing  at  it,  I  rolled  over  at  the  end  of 
the  second  dog-watch  and  went  to  sleep. 

At  ten  minutes  to  twelve  I  was  called,  and  at 
twelve  I  was  dressed  and  on  deck,  relieving  the 
man  who  had  called  me.  On  the  sealing  grounds, 
when  hove  to,  a  watch  of  only  a  single  man  is 
kept  through  the  night,  each  man  holding  the 
deck  for  an  hour.  It  was  a  dark  night,  though 
not  a  black  one.  The  gale  was  breaking  up,  and 
the  clouds  were  thinning.  There  should  have 
been  a  moon,  and,  though  invisible,  in  some  way  a 
dim,  suffused  radiance  came  from  it.  I  paced 
back  and  forth  across  the  deck  amidships.  My 
mind  was  filled  with  the  event  of  the  day  and 
with  the  horrible  tales  my  shipmates  had  told, 
and  yet  I  dare  to  say,  here  and  now,  that  I  was 
not  afraid.  I  was  a  healthy  animal,  and  further 
more,  intellectually,  I  agreed  with  Swinburne 
that  dead  men  rise  up  never.  The  Bricklayer 


THAT  DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER     45 

was  dead,  and  that  was  the  end  of  it.  He  would 
rise  up  never  —  at  least,  never  on  the  deck  of  the 
Sophie  Sutherland.  Even  then  he  was  in  the 
ocean  depths  miles  to  windward  of  our  leeward 
drift,  and  the  likelihood  was  that  he  was  already 
portioned  out  in  the  maws  of  many  sharks.  Still, 
my  mind  pondered  on  the  tales  of  the  ghosts 
of  dead  men  I  had  heard,  and  I  speculated  on 
the  spirit  wrorld.  My  conclusion  was  that  if  the 
spirits  of  the  dead  still  roamed  the  world  they 
carried  the  goodness  or  the  malignancy  of  the 
earth-life  with  them.  Therefore,  granting  the 
hypothesis  (which  I  didn't  grant  at  all) ,  the  ghost 
of  the  Bricklayer  was  bound  to  be  as  hateful  and 
malignant  as  he  in  life  had  been.  But  there 
wasn't  any  Bricklayer's  ghost  —  that  I  insisted 
upon. 

A  few  minutes,  thinking  thus,  I  paced  up  and 
down.  Then,  glancing  casually  for'ard,  along  the 
port  side,  I  leaped  like  a  startled  deer  and  in  a 
blind  madness  of  terror  rushed  aft  along  the 
poop,  heading  for  the  cabin.  Gone  was  all  my 
arrogance  of  youth  and  my  intellectual  calm.  I 
had  seen  a  ghost.  There,  in  the  dim  light,  where 
we  had  flung  the  dead  man  overboard,  I  had 
seen  a  faint  and  wavering  form.  Six  feet  in 
length  it  was,  slender,  and  of  substance  so  at- 


46  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

tenuated  that  I  had  distinctly  seen  through  it  the 
tracery  of  the  fore-rigging. 

As  for  me,  I  was  as  panic-stricken  as  a  fright 
ened  horse.  I,  as  I,  had  ceased  to  exist. 
Through  me  were  vibrating  the  fibre-instincts  of 
ten  thousand  generations  of  superstitious  fore 
bears  who  had  been  afraid  of  the  dark  and  the 
things  of  the  dark.  I  was  not  I.  I  was,  in  truth, 
those  ten  thousand  forebears.  I  was  the  race, 
the  whole  human  race,  in  its  superstitious  in 
fancy.  Not  until  part  way  down  the  cabin-com- 
panionway  did  my  identity  return  to  me.  I 
checked  my  flight  and  clung  to  the  steep  ladder, 
suffocating,  trembling,  and  dizzy.  Never,  before 
nor  since,  have  I  had  such  a  shock.  I  clung  to 
the  ladder  and  considered.  I  could  not  doubt  my 
senses.  That  I  had  seen  something  there  was 
no  discussion.  But  what  was  it?  Either  a  ghost 
or  a  joke.  There  could  be  nothing  else.  If  a 
ghost,  the  question  was:  would  it  appear  again? 
If  it  did  not,  and  I  aroused  the  ship's  officers,  I 
would  make  myself  the  laughing  stock  of  all  on 
board.  And  by  the  same  token,  if  it  were  a  joke, 
my  position  would  be  still  more  ridiculous.  If 
I  were  to  retain  my  hard-won  place  of  equality,  it 
would  never  do  to  arouse  any  one  until  I  ascer 
tained  the  nature  of  the  thing. 


THAT  DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER     47 

I  am  a  brave  man.  I  dare  to  say  so ;  for  in  fear 
and  trembling  I  crept  up  the  companionway  and 
went  back  to  the  spot  from  which  I  had  first  seen 
the  thing.  It  had  vanished.  My  bravery  was 
qualified,  however.  Though  I  could  see  nothing, 
I  was  afraid  to  go  for'ard  to  the  spot  where  I 
had  seen  the  thing.  I  resumed  my  pacing  up  and 
down,  and  though  I  cast  many  an  anxious  glance 
toward  the  dread  spot,  nothing  manifested  itself. 
As  my  equanimity  returned  to  me,  I  concluded 
that  the  whole  affair  had  been  a  trick  of  the 
imagination  and  that  I  had  got  w^hat  I  deserved 
for  allowing  my  mind  to  dwell  on  such  mat 
ters. 

Once  more  my  glances  for'ard  were  casual,  and 
not  anxious;  and  then,  suddenly,  I  wras  a  mad 
man,  rushing  wildly  aft.  I  had  seen  the  thing 
again,  the  long,  wravering  attenuated  substance 
through  which  could  be  seen  the  fore-rigging. 
This  time  I  had  reached  only  the  break  of  the 
poop  when  I  checked  myself.  Again  I  reasoned 
over  the  situation,  and  it  was  pride  that 
counselled  strongest.  I  could  not  afford  to  make 
myself  a  laughing  stock.  This  thing,  whatever 
it  was,  I  must  face  alone.  I  must  work  it  out 
myself.  I  looked  back  to  the  spot  wrhere  we  had 
tilted  the  Bricklayer.  It  was  vacant.  Nothing 


48  THE  HUMAN  DEIFT 

moved.     And  for  a  third  time  I  resumed  my  amid 
ships  pacing. 

In  the  absence  of  the  thing  my  fear  died  away 
and  my  intellectual  poise  returned.  Of  course 
it  was  not  a  ghost.  Dead  men  did  not  rise  up. 
It  was  a  joke,  a  cruel  joke.  My  mates  of  the 
forecastle,  by  some  unknown  means,  were  fright 
ening  me.  Twice  already  must  they  have  seen  me 
run  aft.  My  cheeks  burned  with  shame.  In 
fancy  I  could  hear  the  smothered  chuckling  and 
laughter  even  then  going  on  in  the  forecastle. 
I  began  to  grow  angry.  Jokes  were  all  very  well, 
but  this  was  carrying  the  thing  too  far.  I  was 
the  youngest  on  board,  only  a  youth,  and  they 
had  no  right  to  play  tricks  on  me  of  the  order  that 
I  well  knew  in  the  past  had  made  raving  maniacs 
of  men  and  women.  I  grew  angrier  and  angrier, 
and  resolved  to  show  them  that  I  was  made  of 
sterner  stuff  and  at  the  same  time  to  wreak  my 
resentment  upon  them.  If  the  thing  appeared 
again,  I  made  my  mind  up  that  I  would  go  up  to 
it  —  furthermore,  that  I  would  go  up  to  it  knife 
in  hand.  When  within  striking  distance,  I 
would  strike.  If  a  man,  he  would  get  the  knife- 
thrust  he  deserved.  If  a  ghost,  well,  it  wouldn't 
hurt  the  ghost  any,  while  I  would  have  learned 
that  dead  men  did  rise  up. 


THAT  DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER     49 

Now  I  was  very  angry,  and  I  was  quite  sure 
the  thing  was  a  trick;  but  when  the  thing  ap 
peared  a  third  time,  in  the  same  spot,  long,  at 
tenuated,  and  wavering,  fear  surged  up  in  me 
and  drove  most  of  my  anger  away.  But  I  did 
not  run.  Nor  did  I  take  my  eyes  from  the  thing. 
Both  times  before,  it  had  vanished  while  I  was 
running  away,  so  I  had  not  seen  the  manner  of 
its  going.  I  drew  my  sheath-knife  from  my  belt 
and  began  my  advance.  Step  by  step,  nearer  and 
nearer,  the  effort  to  control  myself  grew  more 
severe.  The  struggle  was  between  my  will,  my 
identity,  my  very  self,  on  the  one  hand,  and  on 
the  other,  the  ten  thousand  ancestors  who  were 
twisted  into  the  fibres  of  me  and  whose  ghostly 
voices  were  whispering  of  the  dark  and  the  fear 
of  the  dark  that  had  been  theirs  in  the  time  when 
the  world  was  dark  and  full  of  terror. 

I  advanced  more  slowly,  and  still  the  thing 
wavered  and  flitted  with  strange  eerie  lurches. 
And  then,  right  before  my  eyes,  it  vanished.  I 
saw  it  vanish.  Neither  to  the  right  nor  left  did 
it  go,  nor  backward.  Right  there,  while  I  gazed 
upon  it,  it  faded  away,  ceased  to  be.  I  didn't  die, 
but  I  swear,  from  what  I  experienced  in  those  few 
succeeding  moments,  that  I  know  full  well  that 
men  can  die  of  fright.  I  stood  there,  knife  in 


50  THE  HUMAN  DKIFT 

hand,  swaying  automatically  to  the  roll  of  the 
ship,  paralysed  with  fear.  Had  the  Bricklayer 
suddenly  seized  my  throat  with  corporeal  fingers 
and  proceeded  to  throttle  me,  it  would  have  been 
no  more  than  I  expected.  Dead  men  did  rise  up, 
and  that  would  be  the  most  likely  thing  the 
malignant  Bricklayer  would  do. 

But  he  didn't  seize  my  throat.  Nothing  hap 
pened.  And,  since  nature  abhors  a  status,  I 
could  not  remain  there  in  the  one  place  forever 
paralysed.  I  turned  and  started  aft.  I  did  not 
run.  What  was  the  use?  What  chance  had  I 
against  the  malevolent  world  of  ghosts?  Flight, 
with  me,  was  the  swiftness  of  my  legs.  But  pur 
suit,  with  a  ghost,  was  the  swiftness  of  thought. 
And  there  were  ghosts.  I  had  seen  one. 

And  so,  stumbling  slowly  aft,  I  discovered  the 
explanation  of  the  seeming.  I  saw  the  mizzen 
topmast  lurching  across  a  faint  radiance  of  cloud 
behind  which  was  the  moon.  The  idea  leaped  in 
my  brain.  I  extended  the  line  between  the 
cloudy  radiance  and  the  mizzen-topmast  and 
found  that  it  must  strike  somewhere  near  the 
fore-rigging  on  the  port  side.  Even  as  I  did  this, 
the  radiance  vanished.  The  driving  clouds  of  the 
breaking  gale  were  alternately  thickening  and 
thinning  before  the  face  of  the  moon  but  never 


THAT  DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER      51 

exposing  the  face  of  the  moon.  And  when  the 
clouds  were  at  their  thinnest,  it  was  a  very  dim 
radiance  that  the  moon  was  able  to  make.  I 
watched  and  waited.  The  next  time  the  clouds 
thinned  I  looked  for'ard,  and  there  was  the 
shadow  of  the  topmast,  long  and  attenuated,  wav 
ering  and  lurching  on  the  deck  and  against  the 
rigging. 

This  was  my  first  ghost.  Once  again  have  I 
seen  a  ghost.  It  proved  to  be  a  Newfoundland 
dog,  and  I  don't  know  which  of  us  was  the  more 
frightened,  for  I  hit  that  Newfoundland  a  full 
right-arm  swing  to  the  jaw.  Regarding  the 
Bricklayer's  ghost,  I  will  say  that  I  never  men 
tioned  it  to  a  soul  on  board.  Also,  I  will  say 
that  in  all  my  life  I  never  went  through  more 
torment  and  mental  suffering  than  on  that  lonely 
night-watch  on  the  Sophie  Sutherland. 

(To  THE  EDITOR. —  This  is  not  a  fiction.  It  is  a  true  page 
out  of  my  life.) 


FOUR 

SMALL-BOAT  SAILING 

A  SAILOR  is  born,  not  made.  And  by 
"  sailor  "  is  meant,  not  the  average  efficient 
and  hopeless  creature  who  is  found  to-day  in  the 
forecastle  of  deepwater  ships,  but  the  man  who 
will  take  a  fabric  compounded  of  wood  and  iron 
and  rope  and  canvas  and  compel  it  to  obey  his 
will  on  the  surface  of  the  sea.  Barring  captains 
and  mates  of  big  ships,  the  small-boat  sailor  is 
the  real  sailor.  He  knows  —  he  must  know  — 
how  to  make  the  wind  carry  his  craft  from  one 
given  point  to  another  given  point.  He  must 
know  about  tides  and  rips  and  eddies,  bar  and 
channel  markings,  and  day  and  night  signals ;  he 
must  be  wise  in  weather-lore ;  and  he  must  be  sym 
pathetically  familiar  with  the  peculiar  qualities 
of  his  boat  which  differentiate  it  from  every  other 
boat  that  was  ever  built  and  rigged.  He  must 
know  how  to  gentle  her  about,  as  one  instance 
of  a  myriad,  and  to  fill  her  on  the  other  tack 
without  deadening  her  way  or  allowing  her  to 
fall  off  too  far. 

52 


SMALL-BOAT  SAILING  53 

The  deepwater  sailor  of  to-day  needs  know 
none  of  these  things.  And  he  doesn't.  He  pulls 
and  hauls  as  he  is  ordered,  swabs  decks,  washes 
paint,  and  chips  iron-rust.  He  knows  nothing, 
and  cares  less.  Put  him  in  a  small  boat  and  he 
is  helpless.  He  will  cut  an  even  better  figure  on 
the  hurricane  deck  of  a  horse. 

I  shall  never  forget  my  child-astonishment 
when  I  first  encountered  one  of  these  strange  be 
ings.  He  was  a  runaway  English  sailor.  I  was 
a  lad  of  twelve,  with  a  decked-over,  fourteen-foot, 
centre-board  skiff  which  I  had  taught  myself  to 
sail.  I  sat  at  his  feet  as  at  the  feet  of  a  god, 
while  he  discoursed  of  strange  lands  and  peoples, 
deeds  of  violence,  and  hair-raising  gales  at  sea. 
Then,  one  day,  I  took  him  for  a  sail.  With  all 
the  trepidation  of  the  veriest  little  amateur,  I 
hoisted  sail  and  got  under  way.  Here  was  a 
man,  looking  on  critically,  I  was  sure,  who  knew 
more  in  one  second  about  boats  and  the  water 
than  I  could  ever  know.  After  an  interval,  in 
which  I  exceeded  myself,  he  took  the  tiller  and 
the  sheet.  I  sat  on  the  little  thwart  amidships, 
open-mouthed,  prepared  to  learn  what  real  sail 
ing  was.  My  mouth  remained  open,  for  I  learned 
what  a  real  sailor  was  in  a  small  boat.  He 
couldn't  trim  the  sheet  to  save  himself,  he  nearly 


54  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

capsized  several  times  in  squalls,  and,  once  again, 
by  blunderingly  jibing  over;  he  didn't  know  what 
a  centre-board  was  for,  nor  did  he  know  that  in 
running  a  boat  before  the  wind  one  must  sit 
in  the  middle  instead  of  on  the  side ;  and  finally, 
when  we  came  back  to  the  wharf,  he  ran  the  skiff 
in  full  tilt,  shattering  her  nose  and  carrying  away 
the  mast-step.  And  yet  he  was  a  really  truly 
sailor  fresh  from  the  vasty  deep. 

Which  points  my  moral.  A  man  can  sail  in  the 
forecastles  of  big  ships  all  his  life  and  never 
know  what  real  sailing  is.  From  the  time  I  was 
twelve,  I  listened  to  the  lure  of  the  sea.  When  I 
was  fifteen  I  was  captain  and  owner  of  an  oyster- 
pirate  sloop.  By  the  time  I  was  sixteen  I  was 
sailing  in  scow-schooners,  fishing  salmon  with 
the  Greeks  up  the  Sacramento  River,  and  serving 
as  sailor  on  the  Fish  Patrol.  And  I  was  a  good 
sailor,  too,  though  all  my  cruising  had  been  on 
San  Francisco  Bay  and  the  rivers  tributary  to 
it.  I  had  never  been  on  the  ocean  in  my  life. 

Then,  the  month  I  was  seventeen,  I  signed  be 
fore  the  mast  as  an  able  seaman  on  a  three-top 
mast  schooner  bound  on  a  seven-months'  cruise 
across  the  Pacific  and  back  again.  As  my  ship 
mates  promptly  informed  me,  I  had  had  my 
nerve  with  me  to  sign  on  as  able  seaman.  Yet 


SMALL-BOAT  SAILING  55 

behold,  I  was  an  able  seaman.  I  had  graduated 
from  the  right  school.  It  took  no  more  than 
minutes  to  learn  the  names  and  uses  of  the  few 
new  ropes.  It  was  simple.  I  did  not  do  things 
blindly.  As  a  small-boat  sailor  I  had  learned  to 
reason  out  and  know  the  why  of  everything.  It 
is  true,  I  had  to  learn  how  to  steer  by  compass, 
which  took  maybe  half  a  minute;  but  when  it 
came  to  steering  "  full-and-by  "  and  "  close-and- 
by,"  I  could  beat  the  average  of  my  shipmates, 
because  that  was  the  very  way  I  had  always 
sailed.  Inside  fifteen  minutes  I  could  box  the 
compass  around  and  back  again.  And  there  was 
little  else  to  learn  during  that  seven-months' 
cruise,  except  fancy  rope-sailorising,  such  as  the 
more  complicated  lanyard  knots  and  the  making 
of  various  kinds  of  sennit  and  rope-mats.  The 
point  of  all  of  which  is  that  it  is  by  means  of 
small-boat  sailing  that  the  real  sailor  is  best 
schooled. 

And  if  a  man  is  a  born  sailor,  and  has  gone  to 
the  school  of  the  sea,  never  in  all  his  life  can  he 
get  away  from  the  sea  again.  The  salt  of  it  is  in 
his  bones  as  well  as  his  nostrils,  and  the  sea  will 
call  to  him  until  he  dies.  Of  late  years,  I  have 
found  easier  ways  of  earning  a  living.  I  have 
quit  the  forecastle  for  keeps,  but  always  I  come 


56  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

back  to  the  sea.  In  my  case  it  is  usually  San 
Francisco  Bay,  than  which  no  lustier,  tougher, 
sheet  of  water  can  be  found  for  small-boat  sail 
ing. 

It  really  blows  on  San  Francisco  Bay.  Dur 
ing  the  winter,  which  is  the  best  cruising  season, 
we  have  southeasters,  southwesters,  and  occa 
sional  howling  northers.  Throughout  the  sum 
mer  we  have  what  we  call  the  "  sea-breeze,"  an 
unfailing  wind  off  the  Pacific  that  on  most  after 
noons  in  the  week  blows  what  the  Atlantic  Coast 
yachtsmen  would  name  a  gale.  They  are  always 
surprised  by  the  small  spread  of  canvas  our 
yachts  carry.  Some  of  them,  with  schooners 
they  have  sailed  around  the  Horn,  have  looked 
proudly  at  their  own  lofty  sticks  and  huge 
spreads,  then  patronisingly  and  even  pityingly 
at  ours.  Then,  perchance,  they  have  joined  in  a 
club  cruise  from  San  Francisco  to  Mare  Island. 
They  found  the  morning  run  up  the  Bay  delight 
ful.  In  the  afternoon,  when  the  brave  west  wind 
ramped  across  San  Pablo  Bay  and  they  faced  it 
on  the  long  beat  home,  things  were  somewhat 
different.  One  by  one,  like  a  flight  of  swallows, 
our  more  meagrely  sparred  and  canvassed  yachts 
went  by,  leaving  them  wallowing  and  dead  and 
shortening  down  in  what  they  called  a  gale  but 


SMALL-BOAT  SAILING  57 

which  we  called  a  dandy  sailing  breeze.  The 
next  time  they  came  out,  we  would  notice  their 
sticks  cut  down,  their  booms  shortened,  and  their 
after-leeches  nearer  the  luffs  by  whole  cloths. 

As  for  excitement,  there  is  all  the  difference  in 
the  world  between  a  ship  in  trouble  at  sea,  and  a 
small  boat  in  trouble  on  land-locked  water.  Yet 
for  genuine  excitement  and  thrill,  give  me  the 
small  boat.  Things  happen  so  quickly,  and  there 
are  always  so  few  to  do  the  work  —  and  hard 
work,  too,  as  the  small-boat  sailor  knows.  I  have 
toiled  all  night,  both  watches  on  deck,  in  a 
typhoon  off  the  coast  of  Japan,  and  been  less 
exhausted  than  by  two  hours'  work  at  reefing 
down  a  thirty-foot  sloop  and  heaving  up  two 
anchors  on  a  lee  shore  in  a  screaming  south 
easter. 

Hard  work  and  excitement?  Let  the  wind 
baffle  and  drop  in  a  heavy  tide-way  just  as  you  are 
sailing  your  little  sloop  through  a  narrow  draw 
bridge.  Behold  your  sails,  upon  which  you  are 
depending,  flap  with  sudden  emptiness,  and  then 
see  the  impish  wind,  with  a  haul  of  eight  points, 
fill  your  jib  aback  with  a  gusty  puff.  Around 
she  goes,  and  sweeps,  not  through  the  open  draw, 
but  broadside  on  against  the  solid  piles.  Hear 
the  roar  of  the  tide,  sucking  through  the  trestle. 


58  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

And  hear  and  see  your  pretty,  fresh-painted  boat 
crash  against  the  piles.  Feel  her  stout  little  hull 
give  to  the  impact.  See  the  rail  actually  pinch 
in.  Hear  your  canvas  tearing,  and  see  the  black, 
square-ended  timbers  thrusting  holes  through  it. 
Smash !  There  goes  your  topmast  stay,  and  the 
topmast  reels  over  drunkenly  above  you.  There 
is  a  ripping  and  crunching.  If  it  continues,  your 
starboard  shrouds  will  be  torn  out.  Grab  a  rope 
—  any  rope  —  and  take  a  turn  around  a  pile. 
But  the  free  end  of  the  rope  is  too  short.  You 
can't  make  it  fast,  and  you  hold  on  and  wildly 
yell  for  your  one  companion  to  get  a  turn  with 
another  and  longer  rope.  Hold  on!  You  hold 
on  till  you  are  purple  in  the  face,  till  it  seems 
your  arms  are  dragging  out  of  their  sockets,  till 
the  blood  bursts  from  the  ends  of  your  fingers. 
But  you  hold,  and  your  partner  gets  the  longer 
rope  and  makes  it  fast.  You  straighten  up  and 
look  at  your  hands.  They  are  ruined.  You  can 
scarcely  relax  the  crooks  of  the  fingers.  The 
pain  is  sickening.  But  there  is  no  time.  The 
skiff,  which  is  always  perverse,  is  pounding 
against  the  barnacles  on  the  piles  which  threaten 
to  scrape  its  gunwale  off.  It's  drop  the  peak! 
Down  jib!  Then  you  run  lines,  and  pull  and 
haul  and  heave,  and  exchange  unpleasant  re- 


SMALL-BOAT  SAILING  59 

marks  with  the  bridge-tender  who  is  always  will 
ing  to  meet  you  more  than  half  way  in  such 
repartee.  And  finally,  at  the  end  of  an  hour, 
with  aching  back,  sweat-soaked  shirt,  and 
slaughtered  hands,  you  are  through  and  swinging 
along  on  the  placid,  beneficent  tide  between  nar 
row  banks  where  the  cattle  stand  knee-deep  and 
gaze  wonderingly  at  you.  Excitement!  Work! 
Can  you  beat  it  in  a  calm  day  on  the  deep  sea? 

I've  tried  it  both  ways.  I  remember  labouring 
In  a  fourteen  days'  gale  off  the  coast  of  New 
Zealand.  We  were  a  tramp  collier,  rusty  and 
battered,  with  six  thousand  tons  of  coal  in  our 
hold.  Life  lines  were  stretched  fore  and  aft; 
and  on  our  weather  side,  attached  to  smokestack 
guys  and  rigging,  were  huge  rope-nettings,  hung 
there  for  the  purpose  of  breaking  the  force  of 
the  seas  and  so  saving  our  mess-room  doors. 
But  the  doors  were  smashed  and  the  mess-rooms 
washed  out  just  the  same.  And  yet,  out  of  it  all, 
arose  but  the  one  feeling,  namely,  of  monotony. 

In  contrast  with  the  foregoing,  about  the  live 
liest  eight  days  of  my  life  were  spent  in  a  small 
boat  on  the  west  coast  of  Korea.  Never  mind 
why  I  was  thus  voyaging  up  the  Yellow  Sea  dur 
ing  the  month  of  February  in  below-zero  weather. 
The  point  is  that  I  was  in  an  open  boat,  a  sampan. 


60  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

on  a  rocky  coast  where  there  were  no  light-houses 
and  where  the  tides  ran  from  thirty  to  sixty  feet. 
My  crew  was  Japanese  fishermen.  We  did  not 
speak  each  other's  language.  Yet  there  was 
nothing  monotonous  about  that  trip.  Never 
shall  I  forget  one  particular  cold  bitter  dawn, 
when,  in  the  thick  of  driving  snow,  we  took  in 
sail  and  dropped  our  small  anchor.  The  wind 
was  howling  out  of  the  northwest,  and  we  were 
on  a  lee  shore.  Ahead  and  astern,  all  escape  was 
cut  off  by  rocky  headlands,  against  whose  bases 
burst  the  unbroken  seas.  To  windward  a  short 
distance,  seen  only  between  the  snow-squalls,  was 
a  low  rocky  reef.  It  was  this  that  inadequately 
protected  us  from  the  whole  Yellow  Sea  that 
thundered  in  upon  us. 

The  Japanese  crawled  under  a  communal  rice 
mat  and  went  to  sleep.  I  joined  them,  and  for 
several  hours  we  dozed  fitfully.  Then  a  sea  de 
luged  us  out  writh  icy  water,  and  we  found  several 
inches  of  snow  on  top  the  mat.  The  reef  to  wind 
ward  was  disappearing  under  the  rising  tide,  and 
moment  by  moment  the  seas  broke  more  strongly 
over  the  rocks.  The  fishermen  studied  the  shore 
anxiously.  So  did  I,  and  with  a  sailor's  eye, 
though  I  could  see  little  chance  for  a  swimmer  to 
gain  that  surf-hammered  line  of  rocks.  I  made 


SMALL-BOAT  SAILING  61 

signs  toward  the  headlands  on  either  flank.  The 
Japanese  shook  their  heads.  I  indicated  that 
dreadful  lee  shore.  Still  they  shook  their  heads 
and  did  nothing.  My  conclusion  was  that  they 
were  paralysed  by  the  hopelessness  of  the  situa 
tion.  Yet  our  extremity  increased  with  every 
minute,  for  the  rising  tide  was  robbing  us  of  the 
reef  that  served  as  buffer.  It  soon  became  a  case 
of  swamping  at  our  anchor.  Seas  were  splash 
ing  on  board  in  growing  volume,  and  we  baled 
constantly.  And  still  my  fishermen  crew  eyed 
the  surf-battered  shore  and  did  nothing. 

At  last,  after  many  narrow-  escapes  from  com 
plete  swamping,  the  fishermen  got  into  action. 
All  hands  tailed  on  to  the  anchor  and  hove  it 
up.  Forward,  as  the  boat's  head  paid  off,  we  set 
a  patch  of  sail  about  the  size  of  a  flour-sack. 
And  we  headed  straight  for  shore.  I  unlaced 
my  shoes,  unbuttoned  my  great-coat  and  coat, 
and  was  ready  to  make  a  quick  partial  strip  a 
minute  or  so  before  we  struck.  But  we  didn't 
strike,  and,  as  we  rushed  in,  I  saw  the  beauty  of 
the  situation.  Before  us  opened  a  narrow  chan 
nel,  frilled  at  its  mouth  with  breaking  seas.  Yet, 
long  before,  when  I  had  scanned  the  shore  closely, 
there  had  been  no  such  channel.  /  had  forgotten 
the  thirty-foot  tide.  And  it  was  for  this  tide 


62  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

that  the  Japanese  had  so  precariously  waited. 
We  ran  the  frill  of  breakers,  curved  into  a  tiny 
sheltered  bay  where  the  water  was  scarcely  flawed 
by  the  gale,  and  landed  on  a  beach  where  the 
salt  sea  of  the  last  tide  lay  frozen  in  long  curv 
ing  lines.  And  this  was  one  gale  of  three  in  the 
course  of  those  eight  days  in  the  sampan.  Would 
it  have  been  beaten  on  a  ship?  I  fear  me  the 
ship  would  have  gone  aground  on  the  outlying 
reef  and  that  its  people  would  have  been  incon 
tinently  and  monotonously  drowned. 

There  are  enough  surprises  and  mishaps  in  a 
three-days'  cruise  in  a  small  boat  to  supply  a 
great  ship  on  the  ocean  for  a  full  year.  I  remem 
ber,  once,  taking  out  on  her  trial  trip  a  little 
thirty-footer  I  had  just  bought.  In  six  days  we 
had  two  stiff  blows,  and,  in  addition,  one  proper 
southwester  and  one  ripsnorting  southeaster. 
The  slight  intervals  between  these  blows  were 
dead  calms.  Also,  in  the  six  days,  we  were 
aground  three  times.  Then,  too,  we  tied  up  to 
the  bank  in  the  Sacramento  River,  and,  grounding 
by  an  accident  on  the  steep  slope  on  a  falling  tide, 
nearly  turned  a  side  somersault  down  the  bank. 
In  a  stark  calm  and  a  heavy  tide  in  the  Carquinez 
Straits,  where  anchors  skate  on  the  channel- 


SMALL-BOAT  SAILING  63 

scoured  bottom,  we  were  sucked  against  a  big 
dock  and  smashed  and  bumped  down  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  of  its  length  before  we  could  get  clear. 
Two  hours  afterward,  on  San  Pablo  Bay,  the 
wind  was  piping  up  and  we  were  reefing  down. 
It  is  no  fun  to  pick  up  a  skiff  adrift  in  a  heavy 
sea  and  gale.  That  was  our  next  task,  for  our 
skiff,  swamping,  parted  both  towing  painters  we 
had  bent  on.  Before  we  recovered  it  we  had 
nearly  killed  ourselves  with  exhaustion,  and  we 
certainly  had  strained  the  sloop  in  every  part 
from  keelson  to  truck.  And  to  cap  it  all,  coming 
into  our  home  port,  beating  up  the  narrowest 
part  of  the  San  Antonio  Estuary,  we  had  a  shave 
of  inches  from  collision  with  a  big  ship  in  tow 
of  a  tug.  I  have  sailed  the  ocean  in  far  larger 
craft  a  year  at  a  time,  in  which  period  occurred 
no  such  chapter  of  moving  incident. 

After  all,  the  mishaps  are  almost  the  best  part 
of  small-boat  sailing.  Looking  back,  they  prove 
to  be  punctuations  of  joy.  At  the  time  they  try 
your  mettle  and  your  vocabulary,  and  may  make 
you  so  pessimistic  as  to  believe  that  God  has  a 
grudge  against  you  —  but  afterward,  ah,  after 
ward,  with  what  pleasure  you  remember  them 
and  with  what  gusto  do  you  relate  them  to  your 


64  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

brother  skippers  in  the  fellowhood  of  small-boat 
sailing. 

A  narrow,  winding  slough;  a  half  tide,  expos 
ing  mud  surfaced  with  gangrenous  slime;  the 
water  itself  filthy  and  discoloured  by  the  waste 
from  the  vats  of  a  near-by  tannery;  the  marsh 
grass  on  either  side  mottled  with  all  the  shades  of 
a  decaying  orchid ;  a  crazy,  ramshackled,  ancient 
wharf;  and  at  the  end  of  the  wharf  a  small,  white- 
painted  sloop.  Nothing  romantic  about  it.  No 
hint  of  adventure.  A  splendid  pictorial  argu 
ment  against  the  alleged  joys  of  small-boat  sail 
ing.  Possibly  that  is  what  Cloudesley  and  I 
thought,  that  sombre,  leaden  morning  as  we 
turned  out  to  cook  breakfast  and  wash  decks. 
The  latter  was  my  stunt,  but  one  look  at  the 
dirty  water  overside  and  another  at  my  fresh- 
painted  deck,  deterred  me.  After  breakfast,  we 
started  a  game  of  chess.  The  tide  continued  to 
fall,  and  we  felt  the  sloop  begin  to  list.  We 
played  on  until  the  chess  men  began  to  fall  over. 
The  list  increased,  and  we  went  on  deck.  Bow 
line  and  stern-line  were  drawn  taut.  As  we 
looked  the  boat  listed  still  farther  with  an  abrupt 
jerk.  The  lines  were  now  very  taut. 

"  As  soon  as  her  belly  touches  the  bottom  she 
will  stop,"  I  said. 


SMALL-BOAT  SAILING  65 

Cloudeslej  sounded  with  a  boat  hook  along  the 
outside. 

"  Seven  feet  of  water,"  he  announced.  "  The 
bank  is  almost  up  and  down.  The  first  thing 
that  touches  will  be  her  mast  when  she  turns 
bottom  up." 

An  ominous,  minute  snapping  noise  came  from 
the  stern-line.  Even  as  we  looked,  wre  saw  a 
strand  fray  and  part.  Then  we  jumped. 
Scarcely  had  we  bent  another  line  between  the 
stern  and  the  wharf,  when  the  original  line 
parted.  As  we  bent  another  line  forward,  the 
original  one  there  crackled  and  parted.  After 
that,  it  was  an  inferno  of  work  and  excitement. 
We  ran  more  and  more  lines,  and  more  and  more 
lines  continued  to  part,  and  more  and  more  the 
pretty  boat  went  over  on  her  side.  We  bent  all 
our  spare  lines;  we  unrove  sheets  and  halyards; 
we  used  our  two-inch  hawser;  we  fastened  lines 
part  way  up  the  mast,  half  way  up,  and  every 
where  else.  We  toiled  and  sweated  and  enounced 
our  mutual  and  sincere  conviction  that  God's 
grudge  still  held  against  us.  Country  yokels 
came  down  on  the  wharf  and  sniggered  at  us. 
When  Cloudesley  let  a  coil  of  rope  slip  down  the 
inclined  deck  into  the  vile  slime  and  fished  it  out 
with  seasick  countenance,  the  yokels  sniggered 


66  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

louder  and  it  was  all  I  could  do  to  prevent  Mm 
from  climbing  up  on  the  wharf  and  committing 
murder. 

By  the  time  the  sloop's  deck  was  perpendicular, 
we  had  unbent  the  boom-lift  from  below,  made 
it  fast  to  the  wharf,  and,  with  the  other  end  fast 
nearly  to  the  mast  head,  heaved  it  taut  with 
block  and  tackle.  The  lift  was  of  steel  wire. 
We  were  confident  that  it  could  stand  the  strain, 
but  we  doubted  the  holding-power  of  the  stays 
that  held  the  mast. 

The  tide  had  two  more  hours  to  ebb  (and  it  was 
the  big  run-out),  which  meant  that  five  hours 
must  elapse  ere  the  returning  tide  would  give  us 
a  chance  to  learn  whether  or  not  the  sloop  would 
rise  to  it  and  right  herself.  The  bank  was  al 
most  up  and  down,  and  at  the  bottom,  directly 
beneath  us,  the  fast-ebbing  tide  left  a  pit  of  the 
vilest,  illest-smelling,  illest-appearing  muck  to  be 
seen  in  many  a  day's  ride.  Said  Cloudesley  to 
me  gazing  down  into  it : 

"  I  love  you  as  a  brother.  I'd  fight  for  you. 
I'd  face  roaring  lions,  and  sudden  death  by  field 
and  flood.  But  just  the  same,  don't  you  fall 
into  that."  He  shuddered  nauseously.  "  For  if 
you  do,  I  haven't  the  grit  to  pull  you  out.  I 
simply  couldn't.  You'd  be  awful.  The  best  I 


SMALL-BOAT  SAILING  67 

could  do  would  be  to  take  a  boat-hook  and  shove 
you  down  out  of  sight." 

We  sat  on  the  upper  side-wall  of  the  cabin, 
dangled  our  legs  down  the  top  of  the  cabin,  leaned 
our  backs  against  the  deck,  and  played  chess  un 
til  the  rising  tide  and  the  block  and  tackle  on 
the  boom-lift  enabled  us  to  get  her  on  a  respect 
able  keel  again.  Years  afterward,  down  in  the 
South  Seas,  on  the  island  of  Ysabel,  I  was  caught 
in  a  similar  predicament.  In  order  to  clean  her 
copper,  I  had  careened  the  Snark  broadside  on 
to  the  beach  and  outward.  When  the  tide  rose, 
she  refused  to  rise.  The  water  crept  in  through 
the  scuppers,  mounted  over  the  rail,  and  the  level 
of  the  ocean  slowly  crawled  up  the  slant  of  the 
deck.  We  battened  down  the  engine  room  hatch, 
and  the  sea  rose  to  it  and  over  it  and  climbed 
perilously  near  to  the  cabin  companionway  and 
skylight.  We  were  all  sick  with  fever,  but  we 
turned  out  in  the  blazing  tropic  sun  and  toiled 
madly  for  several  hours.  We  carried  our  heavi 
est  lines  ashore  from  our  mast-heads  and  heaved 
with  our  heaviest  purchase  until  everything 
crackled  including  ourselves.  We  would  spell 
off  and  lie  down  like  dead  men,  then  get  up  and 
heave  and  crackle  again.  And  in  the  end,  our 
lower  rail  five  feet  under  water  and  the  wavelets 


68  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

lapping  the  companionway  combing,  the  sturdy 
little  craft  shivered  and  shook  herself  and  pointed 
her  masts  once  more  to  the  zenith. 

There  is  never  lack  of  exercise  in  small-boat 
sailing,  and  the  hard  work  is  not  only  part  of  the 
fun  of  it,  but  it  beats  the  doctors.  San  Francisco 
Bay  is  no  mill  pond.  It  is  a  large  and  draughty 
and  variegated  piece  of  water.  I  remember,  one 
winter  evening,  trying  to  enter  the  mouth  of  the 
Sacramento.  There  was  a  freshet  on  the  river, 
the  flood  tide  from  the  bay  had  been  beaten  back 
into  a  strong  ebb,  and  the  lusty  west  wind  died 
down  with  the  sun.  It  was  just  sunset,  and  with 
a  fair  to  middling  breeze,  dead  aft,  we  stood  still 
in  the  rapid  current.  We  were  squarely  in  the 
mouth  of  the  river;  but  there  was  no  anchorage 
and  we  drifted  backward,  faster  and  faster,  and 
dropped  anchor  outside  as  the  last  breath  of 
wind  left  us.  The  night  came  on,  beautiful  and 
warm  and  starry.  My  one  companion  cooked 
supper,  while  on  deck  I  put  everything  in  shape 
Bristol  fashion.  When  we  turned  in  at  nine 
o'clock  the  weather-promise  was  excellent.  (If 
I  had  carried  a  barometer  I'd  have  known  better. ) 
By  two  in  the  morning  our  shrouds  were  thum- 
ming  in  a  piping  breeze,  and  I  got  up  and  gave 


SMALL-BOAT  SAILING  69 

her  more  scope  on  her  hawser.  Inside  another 
hour  there  was  no  doubt  that  we  were  in  for  a 
southeaster. 

It  is  not  nice  to  leave  a  warm  bed  and  get  out 
of  a  bad  anchorage  in  a  black  blowy  night,  but 
we  arose  to  the  occasion,  put  in  two  reefs,  and 
started  to  heave  up.  The  winch  was  old,  and 
the  strain  of  the  jumping  head  sea  was  too  much 
for  it.  With  the  winch  out  of  commission,  it 
was  impossible  to  heave  up  by  hand.  We  knew, 
because  we  tried  it  and  slaughtered  our  hands. 
Now  a  sailor  hates  to  lose  an  anchor.  It  is  a 
matter  of  pride.  Of  course,  we  could  have 
buoyed  ours  and  slipped  it.  Instead,  however,  I 
gave  her  still  more  hawser,  veered  her,  and 
dropped  the  second  anchor. 

There  was  little  sleep  after  that,  for  first  one 
and  then  the  other  of  us  would  be  rolled  out  of 
our  bunks.  The  increasing  size  of  the  seas  told 
us  we  were  dragging,  and  when  we  struck  the 
scoured  channel  we  could  tell  by  the  feel  of  it  that 
our  two  anchors  were  fairly  skating  across.  It 
was  a  deep  channel,  the  farther  edge  of  it  ris 
ing  steeply  like  the  wall  of  a  canyon,  and  when 
our  anchors  started  up  that  wall  they  hit  in  and 
held.  Yet,  when  we  fetched  up,  through  the 


70  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

darkness  we  could  hear  the  seas  breaking  on 
the  solid  shore  astern,  and  so  near  was  it  that  we 
shortened  the  skiff's  painter. 

Daylight  showed  us  that  between  the  stern  of 
the  skiff  and  destruction  was  no  more  than  a 
score  of  feet.  And  how  it  did  blow !  There  were 
times,  in  the  gusts,  when  the  wind  must  have 
approached  a  velocity  of  seventy  or  eighty  miles 
an  hour.  But  the  anchors  held,  and  so  nobly 
that  our  final  anxiety  was  that  the  for'ard  bitts 
would  be  jerked  clean  out  of  the  boat.  All  day 
the  sloop  alternately  ducked  her  nose  under  and 
sat  down  on  her  stern;  and  it  was  not  till  late 
afternoon  that  the  storm  broke  in  one  last  and 
worst  mad  gust.  For  a  full  five  minutes  an  ab 
solute  dead  calm  prevailed,  and  then,  with  the 
suddenness  of  a  thunderclap,  the  wind  snorted 
out  of  the  southwest  —  a  shift  of  eight  points  and 
a  boisterous  gale.  Another  night  of  it  was  too 
much  for  us,  and  we  hove  up  by  hand  in  a  cross 
head-sea.  It  was  not  stiff  work.  It  was  heart 
breaking.  And  I  know  we  were  both  near  to 
crying  from  the  hurt  and  the  exhaustion.  And 
when  we  did  get  the  first  anchor  up-and-down 
we  couldn't  break  it  out.  Between  seas  we 
snubbed  her  nose  down  to  it,  took  plenty  of  turns, 
and  stood  clear  as  she  jumped.  Almost  every- 


SMALL-BOAT  SAILING  71 

thing  smashed  and  parted  except  the  anchor-hold. 
The  chocks  were  jerked  out,  the  rail  torn  off,  and 
the  very  covering-board  splintered,  and  still  the 
anchor  held.  At  last,  hoisting  the  reefed  main 
sail  and  slacking  off  a  few  of  the  hard-won  feet 
of  the  chain,  we  sailed  the  anchor  out.  It  was 
nip  and  tuck,  though,  and  there  were  times  when 
the  boat  was  knocked  down  flat.  We  repeated 
the  manoeuvre  with  the  remaining  anchor,  and  in 
the  gathering  darkness  fled  into  the  shelter  of 
the  river's  mouth. 

I  was  born  so  long  ago  that  I  grew  up  before 
the  era  of  gasoline.  As  a  result,  I  am  old-fash 
ioned.  I  prefer  a  sail-boat  to  a  motor-boat,  and 
it  is  my  belief  that  boat-sailing  is  a  finer,  more 
difficult,  and  sturdier  art  than  running  a  motor. 
Gasoline  engines  are  becoming  fool  proof,  and 
while  it  is  unfair  to  say  that  any  fool  can  run  an 
engine,  it  is  fair  to  say  that  almost  any  one  can. 
Not  so,  when  it  comes  to  sailing  a  boat.  More 
skill,  more  intelligence,  and  a  vast  deal  more 
training  are  necessary.  It  is  the  finest  training 
in  the  world  for  boy  and  youth  and  man.  If  the 
boy  is  very  small,  equip  him  with  a  small,  com 
fortable  skiff.  He  will  do  the  rest.  He  won't 
need  to  be  taught.  Shortly  he  will  be  setting  a 
tiny  leg-of-mutton  and  steering  with  an  oar. 


72  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

Then  he  will  begin  to  talk  keels  and  centreboards 
and  want  to  take  his  blankets  out  and  stop 
aboard  all  night. 

But  don't  be  afraid  for  him.  He  is  bound  to 
run  risks  and  encounter  accidents.  Eemember, 
there  are  accidents  in  the  nursery  as  well  as  out 
on  the  water.  More  boys  have  died  from  hot 
house  culture  than  have  died  on  boats  large  and 
small ;  and  more  boys  have  been  made  into  strong 
and  reliant  men  by  boat-sailing  than  by  lawn- 
croquet  and  dancing  school. 

And  once  a  sailor,  always  a  sailor.  The  savour 
of  the  salt  never  stales.  The  sailor  never  grows 
so  old  that  he  does  not  care  to  go  back  for  one 
more  wrestling  bout  with  wind  and  wave.  I 
know  it  of  myself.  I  have  turned  rancher,  and 
live  beyond  sight  of  the  sea.  Yet  I  can  stay 
away  from  it  only  so  long.  After  several  months 
have  passed,  I  begin  to  grow  restless.  I  find 
myself  day-dreaming  over  incidents  of  the  last 
cruise,  or  wondering  if  the  striped  bass  are  run 
ning  on  Wingo  Slough,  or  eagerly  reading  the 
newspapers  for  reports  of  the  first  northern 
flights  of  ducks.  And  then,  suddenly,  there  is  a 
hurried  packing  of  suit-cases  and  overhauling  of 
gear,  and  we  are  off  for  Vallejo  where  the  little 
Roamer  lies,  waiting,  always  waiting,  for  the 


SMALL-BOAT  SAILING  73 

skiff  to  come  alongside,  for  the  lighting  of  the 
fire  in  the  galley-stove,  for  the  pulling  off  of 
gaskets,  the  swinging  up  of  the  mainsail,  and  the 
rat-tat-tat  of  the  reef-points,  for  the  heaving  short 
and  the  breaking  out,  and  for  the  twirling  of  the 
wheel  as  she  fills  away  and  heads  up  Bay  or  down. 

JACK  LONDON. 

On  Board  Roamer, 
Sonoma  Creek, 
April  15,  1911. 


FIVE 

FOUR   HORSES   AND  A   SAILOR 

*  *T  TUH!     Drive  four  horses!     I  wouldn't  sit 

•Tl  behind  you  —  not  for  a  thousand  dollars 
—  over  them  mountain  roads." 

So  said  Henry,  and  he  ought  to  have  known,  for 
he  drives  four  horses  himself. 

Said  another  Glen  Ellen  friend:  "What? 
London?  He  drive  four  horses?  Can't  drive 
one ! " 

And  the  best  of  it  is  that  he  was  right.  Even 
after  managing  to  get  a  few  hundred  miles  with 
my  four  horses,  I  don't  know  how  to  drive  one. 
Just  the  other  day,  swinging  down  a  steep  moun 
tain  road  and  rounding  an  abrupt  turn,  I  came 
full  tilt  on  a  horse  and  buggy  being  driven  by  a 
woman  up  the  hill.  We  could  not  pass  on  the 
narrow  road,  where  was  only  a  foot  to  spare,  and 
my  horses  did  not  know  how  to  back,  especially 
up  hill.  About  two  hundred  yards  down  the 
hill  was  a  spot  where  we  could  pass.  The  driver 
of  the  buggy  said  she  didn't  dare  back  down  be 
cause  she  was  not  sure  of  the  brake.  And  as  I 

74 


FOUR  HORSES  AND  A  SAILOR        75 

didn't  know  how  to  tackle  one  horse,  I  didn't 
try  it.  So  we  unhitched  her  horse  and  backed 
down  by  hand.  Which  was  very  well,  till  it  came 
to  hitching  the  horse  to  the  buggy  again.  She 
didn't  know  how.  I  didn't  either,  and  I  had  de 
pended  on  her  knowledge.  It  took  us  about  half 
an  hour,  with  frequent  debates  and  consultations, 
though  it  is  an  absolute  certainty  that  never  in 
its  life  was  that  horse  hitched  in  that  particular 
way. 

No;  I  can't  harness  up  one  horse.  But  I  can 
four,  which  compels  me  to  back  up  again  to  get 
to  my  beginning.  Having  selected  Sonoma 
Valley  for  our  abiding  place,  Charmian  and  I 
decided  it  was  about  time  we  knew  what  we  had 
in  our  own  county  and  the  neighbouring  ones. 
How  to  do  it,  was  the  first  question.  Among  our 
many  weaknesses  is  the  one  of  being  old-fash 
ioned.  We  don't  mix  with  gasoline  very  well. 
And,  as  true  sailors  should,  we  naturally  gravi 
tate  toward  horses.  Being  one  of  those  lucky  in 
dividuals  who  carries  his  office  under  his  hat,  I 
should  have  to  take  a  typewriter  and  a  load  of 
books  along.  This  put  saddle-horses  out  of  the 
running.  Charmian  suggested  driving  a  span. 
She  had  faith  in  me;  besides,  she  could  drive  a 
span  herself.  But  when  I  thought  of  the  many 


76  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

mountains  to  cross,  and  of  crossing  them  for 
three  months  with  a  poor  tired  span,  I  vetoed 
the  proposition  and  said  we'd  have  to  come  back 
to  gasoline  after  all.  This  she  vetoed  just  as 
emphatically,  and  a  deadlock  obtained  until  I 
received  inspiration. 

"  Why  not  drive  four  horses?  "  I  said. 

"  But  you  don't  know  how  to  drive  four  horses," 
was  her  objection. 

I  threw  my  chest  out  and  my  shoulders  back. 
"What  man  has  done,  I  can  do,"  I  proclaimed 
grandly.  "And  please  don't  forget  that  when 
wre  sailed  on  the  Snark  I  knew  nothing  of  navi 
gation,  and  that  I  taught  myself  as  I  sailed." 

"  Very  well,"  she  said.  (And  there's  faith 
for  you!)  "They  shall  be  four  saddle  horses, 
and  we'll  strap  our  saddles  on  behind  the  rig." 

It  was  my  turn  to  object.  "  Our  saddle  horses 
are  not  broken  to  harness." 

"  Then  break  them." 

And  what  I  knew  about  horses,  much  less  about 
breaking  them,  was  just  about  as  much  as  any 
sailor  knows.  Having  been  kicked,  bucked  off, 
fallen  over  backward  upon,  and  thrown  out  and 
run  over,  on  very  numerous  occasions,  I  had  a 
mighty  vigorous  respect  for  horses;  but  a  wife's 
faith  must  be  lived  up  to,  and  I  went  at  it. 


FOUR  HORSES  AND  A  SAILOR        77 

King  was  a  polo  pony  from  St.  Louis,  and 
Prince  a  many-gaited  love-horse  from  Pasadena. 
The  hardest  thing  was  to  get  them  to  dig  in  and 
pull.  They  rollicked  along  on  the  levels  and 
galloped  down  the  hills,  but  when  they  struck  an 
up-grade  and  felt  the  weight  of  the  breaking- 
cart,  they  stopped  and  turned  around  and  looked 
at  me.  But  I  passed  them,  and  my  troubles  be 
gan.  Milda  was  fourteen  years  old,  an  unadult 
erated  broncho,  and  in  temperament  was  a  com 
bination  of  mule  and  jack-rabbit  blended  equally. 
If  you  pressed  your  hand  on  her  flank  and  told 
her  to  get  over,  she  lay  down  on  you.  If  you  got 
her  by  the  head  and  told  her  to  back,  she  walked 
forward  over  you.  And  if  you  got  behind  her 
and  shoved  and  told  her  to  "  Giddap ! "  she  sat 
down  on  you.  Also,  she  wouldn't  walk.  For 
endless  weary  miles  I  strove  with  her,  but  never 
could  I  get  her  to  walk  a  step.  Finally,  she  was 
a  manger-glutton.  No  matter  how  near  or  far 
from  the  stable,  when  six  o'clock  came  around  she 
bolted  for  home  and  never  missed  the  directest 
cross-road.  Many  times  I  rejected  her. 

The  fourth  and  most  rejected  horse  of  all  was 
the  Outlaw.  From  the  age  of  three  to  seven 
she  had  defied  all  horse-breakers  and  broken  a 
number  of  them.  Then  a  long,  lanky  cowboy, 


78  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

with  a  fifty -pound  saddle  and  a  Mexican  bit  had 
got  her  proud  goat.  I  was  the  next  owner.  She 
was  niy  favourite  riding  horse.  Charmian  said 
I'd  have  to  put  her  in  as  a  wheeler  where  I  would 
have  more  control  over  her.  Now  Charmian  had 
a  favourite  riding  mare  called  Maid.  I  sug 
gested  Maid  as  a  substitute.  Charmian  pointed 
out  that  my  mare  was  a  branded  range  horse, 
while  hers  was  a  near-thoroughbred,  and  that  the 
legs  of  her  mare  would  be  ruined  forever  if  she 
were  driven  for  three  months.  I  acknowledged 
her  mare's  thoroughbredness,  and  at  the  same 
time  defied  her  to  find  any  thoroughbred  with  as 
small  and  delicately -viciously  pointed  ears  as  my 
Outlaw.  She  indicated  Maid's  exquisitely  thin 
shinbone.  I  measured  the  Outlaw's.  It  was 
equally  thin,  although,  I  insinuated,  possibly 
more  durable.  This  stabbed  Charmian's  pride. 
Of  course  her  near-thoroughbred  Maid,  carrying 
the  blood  of  "old"  Lexington,  Morella,  and  a 
streak  of  the  super-enduring  Morgan,  could  run, 
walk,  and  work  my  unregistered  Outlaw  into  the 
ground ;  and  that  was  the  very  precise  reason  why 
such  a  paragon  of  a  saddle  animal  should  not  be 
degraded  by  harness. 

So  it  was  that  Charmian  remained  obdurate, 
until,  one  day,  I  got  her  behind  the  Outlaw  for 


FOUR  HORSES  AND  A  SAILOR        79 

a  forty-mile  drive.  For  every  inch  of  those  forty 
miles  the  Outlaw  kicked  and  jumped,  in  between 
the  kicks  and  jumps  finding  time  and  space  in 
which  to  seize  its  team-mate  by  the  back  of  the 
neck  and  attempt  to  drag  it  to  the  ground.  An 
other  trick  the  Outlaw  developed  during  that 
drive  was  suddenly  to  turn  at  right  angles  in  the 
traces  and  endeavour  to  butt  its  team-mate  over 
the  grade.  Reluctantly  and  nobly  did  Charmian 
give  in  and  consent  to  the  use  of  Maid.  The  Out 
law's  shoes  were  pulled  off,  and  she  was  turned 
out  on  range. 

Finally,  the  four  horses  were  hooked  to  the 
rig  —  a  light  Studebaker  trap.  With  two  hours 
and  a  half  of  practice,  in  which  the  excitement 
was  not  abated  by  several  jackpoles  and  numer 
ous  kicking  matches,  I  announced  myself  as  ready 
for  the  start.  Came  the  morning,  and  Prince, 
who  was  to  have  been  a  wheeler  with  Maid, 
showed  up  with  a  badly  kicked  shoulder.  He  did 
not  exactly  show  up ;  we  had  to  find  him,  for  he 
was  unable  to  walk.  His  leg  swelled  and  con 
tinually  swelled  during  the  several  days  we 
waited  for  him.  Remained  only  the  Outlaw.  In 
from  pasture  she  came,  shoes  were  nailed  on,  and 
she  was  harnessed  into  the  wheel.  Friends  and 
relatives  strove  to  press  accident  policies  on  me, 


80  THE  HUMAN  DEIFT 

but  Charmian  climbed  up  alongside,  and  Nakata 
got  into  the  rear  seat  with  the  typewriter  — 
Nakata,  who  sailed  cabin-boy  on  the  Snark  for 
two  years  and  who  has  shown  himself  afraid  of 
nothing,  not  even  of  me  and  my  amateur  jam 
borees  in  experimenting  with  new  modes  of  loco 
motion.  And  we  did  very  nicely,  thank  you, 
especially  after  the  first  hour  or  so,  during  which 
time  the  Outlaw  had  kicked  about  fifty  various 
times,  chiefly  to  the  damage  of  her  own  legs  and 
the  paintwork,  and  after  she  had  bitten  a  couple 
of  hundred  times,  to  the  damage  of  Maid's  neck 
and  Charmian's  temper.  It  was  hard  enough  to 
have  her  favourite  mare  in  the  harness  without 
also  enduring  the  spectacle  of  its  being  eaten 
alive. 

Our  leaders  were  joys.  King  being  a  pole 
pony  and  Milda  a  rabbit,  they  rounded  curves 
beautifully  and  darted  ahead  like  coyotes  out 
of  the  way  of  the  wheelers.  Milda's  besetting 
weakness  was  a  frantic  desire  not  to  have  the 
lead-bar  strike  her  hocks.  When  this  happened, 
one  of  three  things  occurred :  either  she  sat  down 
on  the  lead-bar,  kicked  it  up  in  the  air  until  she 
got  her  back  under  it,  or  exploded  in  a  straight- 
ahead,  harness-disrupting  jump.  Not  until  she 
carried  the  lead-bar  clean  away  and  danced  a 


FOUR  HOKSES  AND  A  SAILOR       81 

break-down  on  it  and  the  traces,  did  she  behave 
decently.  Nakata  and  I  made  the  repairs  with 
good  old-fashioned  bale-rope,  which  is  stronger 
than  wrought-iron  any  time,  and  we  went  on  our 
way. 

In  the  meantime  I  was  learning  —  I  shall  not 
say  to  tool  a  four-in-hand  —  but  just  simply  to 
drive  four  horses.  Now  it  is  all  right  enough  to 
begin  with  four  work-horses  pulling  a  load  of 
several  tons.  But  to  begin  with  four  light 
horses,  all  running,  and  a  light  rig  that  seems  to 
outrun  them  —  well,  when  things  happen  they 
happen  quickly.  My  weakness  was  total  igno 
rance.  In  particular,  my  fingers  lacked  training, 
and  I  made  the  mistake  of  depending  on  my  eyes 
to  handle  the  reins.  This  brought  me  up  against 
a  disastrous  optical  illusion.  The  bight  of  the 
off  head-line,  being  longer  and  heavier  than  that 
of  the  off  wheel-line,  hung  lower.  In  a  moment 
requiring  quick  action,  I  invariably  mistook  the 
two  lines.  Pulling  on  what  I  thought  was  the 
wheel-line,  in  order  to  straighten  the  team,  I 
would  see  the  leaders  swing  abruptly  around  into 
a  jack-pole.  Now  for  sensations  of  sheer  im 
potence,  nothing  can  compare  with  a  jack-pole, 
when  the  horrified  driver  beholds  his  leaders 
prancing  gaily  up  the  road  and  his  wheelers 


82  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

jogging  steadily  down  the  road,  all  at  the  same 
time  and  all  harnessed  together  and  to  the  same 
rig. 

I  no  longer  jack-pole,  and  I  don't  mind  admit 
ting  how  I  got  out  of  the  habit.  It  was  my  eyes 
that  enslaved  my  fingers  into  ill  practices.  So 
I  shut  my  eyes  and  let  the  fingers  go  it  alone. 
To-day  my  fingers  are  independent  of  my  eyes 
and  work  automatically.  I  do  not  see  what  my 
fingers  do.  They  just  do  it.  All  I  see  is  the 
satisfactory  result. 

Still  we  managed  to  get  over  the  ground  that 
first  day  —  down  sunny  Sonoma  Valley  to  the 
old  town  of  Sonoma,  founded  by  General  Vallejo 
as  the  remotest  outpost  on  the  northern  frontier 
for  the  purpose  of  holding  back  the  Gentiles,  as 
the  wild  Indians  of  those  days  were  called.  Here 
history  was  made.  Here  the  last  Spanish  mis 
sion  was  reared;  here  the  Bear  flag  was  raised; 
and  here  Kit  Carson,  and  Fremont,  and  all  our 
early  adventurers  came  and  rested  in  the  days 
before  the  days  of  gold. 

We  swung  on  over  the  low,  rolling  hills, 
through  miles  of  dairy  farms  and  chicken  ranches 
where  every  blessed  hen  is  white,  and  down  the 
slopes  to  Petaluma  Valley.  Here,  in  1776,  Cap 
tain  Quiros  came  up  Petaluma  Creek  from  San 


FOUR  HORSES  AND  A  SAILOR       83 

Pablo  Bay  in  quest  of  an  outlet  to  Bodega  Bay 
on  the  coast.  And  here,  later,  the  Russians,  with 
Alaskan  hunters,  carried  ski  boats  across  from 
Fort  Ross  to  poach  for  sea-otters  on  the  Spanish 
preserve  of  San  Francisco  Bay.  Here,  too,  still 
later,  General  Vallejo  built  a  fort,  which  still 
stands  —  one  of  the  finest  examples  of  Spanish 
adobe  that  remain  to  us.  And  here,  at  the  old 
fort,  to  bring  the  chronicle  up  to  date,  our  horses 
proceeded  to  make  peculiarly  personal  history 
with  astonishing  success  and  dispatch.  King, 
our  peerless,  polo-pony  leader,  went  lame.  So 
hopelessly  lame  did  he  go  that  no  expert,  then  and 
afterward,  could  determine  whether  the  lame 
ness  was  in  his  frogs,  hoofs,  legs,  shoulders,  or 
head.  Maid  picked  up  a  nail  and  began  to  limp. 
Milda,  figuring  the  day  already  sufficiently  spent 
and  maniacal  with  manger  gluttony,  began  to 
rabbit-jump.  All  that  held  her  was  the  bale- 
rope.  And  the  Outlaw,  game  to  the  last,  ex 
ceeded  all  previous  exhibitions  of  skin-removing, 
paint-marring,  and  horse-eating. 

At  Petaluma  we  rested  over  while  King  was 
returned  to  the  ranch  and  Prince  sent  to  us. 
Now  Prince  had  proved  himself  an  excellent 
wheeler,  yet  he  had  to  go  into  the  lead  and  let  the 
Outlaw  retain  his  old  place.  There  is  an  axiom 


84  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

that  a  good  wheeler  is  a  poor  leader.  I  object 
to  the  last  adjective.  A  good  wheeler  makes  an 
infinitely  worse  kind  of  a  leader  than  that.  I 
know  .  .  .  now.  I  ought  to  know.  Since  that 
day  I  have  driven  Prince  a  few  hundred  miles 
in  the  lead.  He  is  neither  any  better  nor  any 
worse  than  the  first  mile  he  ran  in  the  lead ;  and 
his  worst  is  even  extremely  worse  than  what  you 
are  thinking.  Not  that  he  is  vicious.  He  is 
merely  a  good-natured  rogue  who  shakes  hands 
for  sugar,  steps  on  your  toes  out  of  sheer  exces 
sive  friendliness,  and  just  goes  on  loving  you  in 
your  harshest  moments. 

But  he  won't  get  out  of  the  way.  Also,  when 
ever  he  is  reproved  for  being  in  the  wrong,  he 
accuses  Milda  of  it  and  bites  the  back  of  her  neck. 
So  bad  has  this  become  that  whenever  I  yell 
"  Prince !  "  in  a  loud  voice,  Milda  immediately 
rabbit-jumps  to  the  side,  straight  ahead,  or  sits 
down  on  the  lead-bar.  All  of  which  is  quite  dis 
concerting.  Picture  it  yourself.  You  are  swing 
ing  a  sharp,  down-grade,  mountain  curve,  at  a 
fast  trot.  The  rock  wall  is  the  outside  of  the 
curve.  The  inside  of  the  curve  is  a  precipice. 
The  continuance  of  the  curve  is  a  narrow,  un- 
railed  bridge.  You  hit  the  curve,  throwing  the 
leaders  in  against  the  wall  and  making  the  pole- 


FOUR  HORSES  AND  A  SAILOR       85 

horse  do  the  work.  All  is  lovely.  The  leaders 
are  hugging  the  wall  like  nestling  doves.  But 
the  moment  comes  in  the  evolution  when  the 
leaders  must  shoot  out  ahead.  They  really  must 
shoot,  or  else  they'll  hit  the  wall  and  miss  the 
bridge.  Also,  behind  them  are  the  wheelers,  and 
the  rig,  and  you  have  just  eased  the  brake  in 
order  to  put  sufficient  snap  into  the  manoeuvre. 
If  ever  team-work  is  required,  now  is  the  time. 
Milda  tries  to  shoot.  She  does  her  best,  but 
Prince,  bubbling  over  with  roguishness,  lags  be 
hind.  He  knows  the  trick.  Milda  is  half  a 
length  ahead  of  him.  He  times  it  to  the  frac 
tion  of  a  second.  Maid,  in  the  wheel,  over-run 
ning  him,  naturally  bites  him.  This  disturbs  the 
Outlaw,  who  has  been  behaving  beautifully,  and 
she  immediately  reaches  across  for  Maid.  Sim 
ultaneously,  with  a  fine  display  of  firm  convic 
tion  that  it's  all  Milda's  fault,  Prince  sinks  his 
teeth  into  the  back  of  Milda's  defenceless  neck. 
The  whole  thing  has  occurred  in  less  than  a  sec 
ond.  Under  the  surprise  and  pain  of  the  bite, 
Milda  either  jumps  ahead  to  the  imminent  peril 
of  harness  and  lead-bar,  or  smashes  into  the 
wall,  stops  short  with  the  lead-bar  over  her  back, 
and  emits  a  couple  of  hysterical  kicks.  The 
Outlaw  invariably  selects  this  moment  to  remove 


86  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

paint.  And  after  things  are  untangled  and  you 
have  had  time  to  appreciate  the  close  shave,  you 
go  up  to  Prince  and  reprove  him  with  your  choic 
est  vocabulary.  And  Prince,  gazelle-eyed  and 
tender,  offers  to  shake  hands  with  you  for  sugar. 
I  leave  it  to  any  one :  a  boat  would  never  act  that 
way. 

We  have  some  history  north  of  the  Bay. 
Nearly  three  centuries  and  a  half  ago,  that 
doughty  pirate  and  explorer,  Sir  Francis  Drake, 
combing  the  Pacific  for  Spanish  galloons, 
anchored  in  the  bight  formed  by  Point  Reyes,  on 
which  to-day  is  one  of  the  richest  dairy  regions 
in  the  world.  Here,  less  than  two  decades  after 
Drake,  Sebastien  Carmenon  piled  up  on  the  rocks 
with  a  silk-laden  galleon  from  the  Philippines. 
And  in  this  same  bay  of  Drake,  long  afterward, 
the  Russian  fur-poachers  rendezvous'd  their 
bidarkes  and  stole  in  through  the  Golden  Gate 
to  the  forbidden  waters  of  San  Francisco  Bay. 

Farther  up  the  coast,  in  Sonoma  County,  we 
pilgrimaged  to  the  sites  of  the  Russian  settle 
ments.  At  Bodega  Bay,  south  of  what  to-day  is 
called  Russian  River,  was  their  anchorage,  while 
north  of  the  river  they  built  their  fort.  And 
much  of  Fort  Ross  still  stands.  Log-bastions, 
church,  and  stables  hold  their  own,  and  so  well, 


FOUR  HORSES  AND  A  SAILOR       87 

with  rusty  hinges  creaking,  that  we  warmed  our 
selves  at  the  hundred-years-old  double  fireplace 
and  slept  under  the  hand-hewn  roof  beams  still 
held  together  by  spikes  of  hand-wrought  iron. 

We  went  to  see  where  history  had  been  made, 
and  we  saw  scenery  as  well.  One  of  our  stretches 
in  a  day's  drive  was  from  beautiful  Inverness  on 
Tomales  Bay,  down  the  Olema  Valley  to  Bolinas 
Bay,  along  the  eastern  shore  of  that  body  of  water 
to  Willow  Camp,  and  up  over  the  sea-bluffs, 
around  the  bastions  of  Tamalpais,  and  down  to 
Sausalito.  From  the  head  of  Bolinas  Bay  to 
Willow  Camp  the  drive  on  the  edge  of  the  beach, 
and  actually,  for  half-mile  stretches,  in  the  waters 
of  the  bay  itself,  was  a  delightful  experience. 
The  wonderful  part  was  to  come.  Very  few  San 
Franciscans,  much  less  Californians,  know  of 
that  drive  from  Willow  Camp,  to  the  south  and 
east,  along  the  poppy-blown  cliffs,  with  the  sea 
thundering  in  the  sheer  depths  hundreds  of  feet 
below  and  the  Golden  Gate  opening  up  ahead, 
disclosing  smoky  San  Francisco  on  her  many 
hills.  Far  off,  blurred  on  the  breast  of  the  sea, 
can  be  seen  the  Farallones,  which  Sir  Francis 
Drake  passed  on  a  S.  W.  course  in  the  thick  of 
what  he  describes  as  a  "  stynking  fog."  Well 
might  he  call  it  that,  and  a  few  other  names,  for 


88  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

it  was  the  fog  that  robbed  him  of  the  glory  of 
discovering  San  Francisco  Bay. 

It  was  on  this  part  of  the  drive  that  I  decided 
at  last  I  was  learning  real  mountain-driving. 
To  confess  the  truth,  for  delicious  titillation  of 
one's  nerve,  I  have  since  driven  over  no  moun 
tain  road  that  was  worse,  or  better,  rather,  than 
that  piece. 

And  then  the  contrast !  From  Sausalito,  over 
excellent,  park-like  boulevards,  through  the 
splendid  redwoods  and  homes  of  Mill  Valley, 
across  the  blossomed  hills  of  Marin  County,  along 
the  knoll-studded  picturesque  marshes,  past  San 
Rafael  resting  warmly  among  her  hills,  over  the 
divide  and  up  the  Petaluma  Valley,  and  on  to 
the  grassy  feet  of  Sonoma  Mountain  and  home. 
We  covered  fifty -five  miles  that  day.  Not  so  bad, 
eh,  for  Prince  the  Rogue,  the  paint-removing 
Outlaw,  the  thin-shanked  thorough-bred,  and  the 
rabbit- jumper?  And  they  came  in  cool  and  dry, 
ready  for  their  mangers  and  the  straw. 

Oh,  we  didn't  stop.  We  considered  we  were 
just  starting,  and  that  was  many  weeks  ago. 
We  have  kept  on  going  over  six  counties  which 
are  comfortably  large,  even  for  California,  and 
we  are  still  going.  We  have  twisted  and 
doubled,  criss-crossed  our  tracks,  made  fascinat- 


FOUR  HORSES  AND  A  SAILOR        89 

ing  and  lengthy  dives  into  the  interior  valleys  in 
the  hearts  of  Napa  and  Lake  Counties,  travelled 
the  coast  for  hundreds  of  miles  on  end,  and  are 
now  in  Eureka,  on  Humboldt  Bay,  which  was 
discovered  by  accident  by  the  gold-seekers,  who 
were  trying  to  find  their  way  to  and  from  the 
Trinity  diggings.  Even  here,  the  whiteman's  his 
tory  preceded  them,  for  dim  tradition  says  that 
the  Russians  once  anchored  here  and  hunted 
sea-otter  before  the  first  Yankee  trader  rounded 
the  Horn,  or  the  first  Rocky  Mountain  trapper 
thirsted  across  the  "  Great  American  Desert " 
and  trickled  down  the  snowy  Sierras  to  the  sun- 
kissed  land.  No;  we  are  not  resting  our  horses 
here  on  Humboldt  Bay.  We  are  writing  this 
article,  gorging  on  abalones  and  mussels,  digging 
clams,  and  catching  record-breaking  sea-trout 
and  rock-cod  in  the  intervals  in  which  we  are 
not  sailing,  motor-boating,  and  swimming  in  the 
most  temperately  equable  climate  we  have  ever 
experienced. 

These  comfortably  large  counties!  They  are 
veritable  empires.  Take  Humboldt,  for  instance. 
It  is  three  times  as  large  as  Rhode  Island,  one 
and  a  half  times  as  large  as  Delaware,  almost  as 
large  as  Connecticut,  and  half  as  large  as 
Massachusetts.  The  pioneer  has  done  his  work 


90  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

in  this  north  of  the  bay  region,  the  foundations 
are  laid,  and  all  is  ready  for  the  inevitable  in 
rush  of  population  and  adequate  development  of 
resources  which  so  far  have  been  no  more  than 
skimmed,  and  casually  and  carelessly  skimmed 
at  that.  This  region  of  the  six  counties  alone 
will  some  day  support  a  population  of  millions. 
In  the  meanwhile,  O  you  home-seekers,  you 
wealth-seekers,  and,  above  all,  you  climate-seek 
ers,  now  is  the  time  to  get  in  on  the  ground  floor. 
Robert  Ingersoll  once  said  that  the  genial 
climate  of  California  would  in  a  fairly  brief  time 
evolve  a  race  resembling  the  Mexicans,  and  that 
in  two  or  three  generations  the  Californians 
would  be  seen  of  a  Sunday  morning  on  their  way 
to  a  cockfight  with  a  rooster  under  each  arm. 
Never  was  made  a  rasher  generalisation,  based 
on  so  absolute  an  ignorance  of  facts.  It  is  to 
laugh.  Here  is  a  climate  that  breeds  vigour, 
with  just  sufficient  geniality  to  prevent  the  ex 
penditure  of  most  of  that  vigour  in  fighting  the 
elements.  Here  is  a  climate  where  a  man  can 
work  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  days  in  the 
year  without  the  slightest  hint  of  enervation,  and 
where  for  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  nights  he 
must  perforce  sleep  under  blankets.  What  more 
can  one  say?  I  consider  myself  somewhat  of  a 


FOUR  HORSES  AND  A  SAILOR        91 

climate  expert,  having  adventured  among  most  of 
the  climates  of  five  out  of  the  six  zones.  I  have 
not  jet  been  in  the  Antarctic,  but  whatever 
climate  obtains  there  will  not  deter  me  from 
drawing  the  conclusion  that  nowhere  is  there  a 
climate  to  compare  with  that  of  this  region. 
Maybe  I  am  as  wrong  as  Ingersoll  was.  Never 
theless  I  take  my  medicine  by  continuing  to  live 
in  this  climate.  Also,  it  is  the  only  medicine  I 
ever  take. 

But  to  return  to  the  horses.  There  is  some 
improvement.  Milda  has  actually  learned  to 
walk.  Maid  has  proved  her  thoroughbredness  by 
never  tiring  on  the  longest  days,  and,  while  be 
ing  the  strongest  and  highest  spirited  of  all,  by 
never  causing  any  trouble  save  for  an  occasional 
kick  at  the  Outlaw.  And  the  Outlaw  rarely 
gallops,  no  longer  butts,  only  periodically  kicks, 
comes  in  to  the  pole  and  does  her  work  without 
attempting  to  vivisect  Maid's  medulla  oblongata, 
and  —  marvel  of  marvels  —  is  really  and  truly 
getting  lazy.  But  Prince  remains  the  same  in 
corrigible,  loving  and  lovable  rogue  he  has  always 
been. 

And  the  country  we've  been  over!  The  drives 
through  Napa  and  Lake  Counties!  One,  from 
Sonoma  Valley,  via  Santa  Rosa,  we  could  not 


92  THE  HUMAN  DEIFT 

refrain  from  taking  several  ways,  and  on  all  the 
ways  we  found  the  roads  excellent  for  machines 
as  well  as  horses.  One  route,  and  a  more  de 
lightful  one  for  an  automobile  cannot  be  found, 
is  out  from  Santa  Rosa,  past  old  Altruria  and 
Mark  West  Springs,  then  to  the  right  and  across 
to  Calistoga  in  Napa  Valley.  By  keeping  to 
the  left,  the  drive  holds  on  up  the  Russian  River 
Valley,  through  the  miles  of  the  noted  Asti  Vine 
yards  to  Cloverdale,  and  then  by  way  of  Pieta, 
Witter,  and  Highland  Springs  to  Lakeport.  Still 
another  way  we  took,  was  down  Sonoma  Valley, 
skirting  San  Pablo  Bay,  and  up  the  lovely  Napa 
Valley.  From  Napa  were  side  excursions 
through  Pope  and  Berryessa  Valleys,  on  to 
^Etna  Springs,  and  still  on,  into  Lake  County, 
crossing  the  famous  Langtry  Ranch. 

Continuing  up  the  Napa  Valley,  walled  on 
either  hand  by  great  rock  palisades  and  redwood 
forests  and  carpeted  with  endless  vineyards,  and 
crossing  the  many  stone  bridges  for  which  the 
County  is  noted  and  which  are  a  joy  to  the  beauty- 
loving  eyes  as  well  as  to  the  four-horse  tyro 
driver,  past  Calistoga  with  its  old  mud-baths  and 
chicken-soup  springs,  with  St.  Helena  and  its 
giant  saddle  ever  towering  before  us,  we  climbed 
the  mountains  on  a  good  grade  and  dropped 


FOUR  HORSES  AND  A  SAILOR       93 

down  past  the  quicksilver  mines  to  the  canyon 
of  the  Geysers.  After  a  stop  over  night  and 
an  exploration  of  the  miniature-grand  volcanic 
scene,  we  pulled  on  across  the  canyon  and  took 
the  grade  where  the  cicades  simmered  audibly  in 
the  noon  sunshine  among  the  hillside  manzanitas. 
Then,  higher,  came  the  big  cattle-dotted  upland 
pastures,  and  the  rocky  summit.  And  here  on 
the  summit,  abruptly,  we  caught  a  vision,  or  what 
seemed  a  mirage.  The  ocean  we  had  left  long 
days  before,  yet  far  dowrn  and  away  shimmered 
a  blue  sea,  framed  on  the  farther  shore  by  rugged 
mountains,  on  the  near  shore  by  fat  and  rolling 
farm  lands.  Clear  Lake  was  before  us,  and  like 
proper  sailors  we  returned  to  our  sea,  going  for  a 
sail,  a  fish,  and  a  swim  ere  the  day  was  done  and 
turning  into  tired  Lakeport  blankets  in  the  early 
evening.  Well  has  Lake  County  been  called  the 
Walled-in  County.  But  the  railroad  is  coming. 
They  say  the  approach  we  made  to  Clear  Lake  is 
similar  to  the  approach  to  Lake  Lucerne.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  the  scenery,  with  its  distant  snow 
capped  peaks,  can  wrell  be  called  Alpine. 

And  wrhat  can  be  more  exquisite  than  the  drive 
out  from  Clear  Lake  to  Ukiah  by  way  of  the 
Blue  Lakes  chain !  —  every  turn  bringing  into 
view  a  picture  of  breathless  beauty ;  every  glance 


94  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

backward  revealing  some  perfect  composition  in 
line  and  colour,  the  intense  blue  of  the  water 
margined  with  splendid  oaks,  green  fields,  and 
swaths  of  orange  poppies.  But  those  side 
glances  and  backward  glances  were  provocative 
of  trouble.  Charniian  and  I  disagreed  as  to 
which  way  the  connecting  stream  of  water  ran. 
We  still  disagree,  for  at  the  hotel,  where  we 
submitted  the  affair  to  arbitration,  the  hotel 
manager  and  the  clerk  likewise  disagreed.  I 
assume,  now,  that  we  never  will  know  which  way 
that  stream  runs.  Charniian  suggests  "  both 
ways."  I  refuse  such  a  compromise.  No  stream 
of  water  I  ever  saw  could  accomplish  that  feat  at 
one  and  the  same  time.  The  greatest  concession 
I  can  make  is  that  sometimes  it  may  run  one  way 
and  sometimes  the  other,  and  that  in  the  mean 
time  we  should  both  consult  an  oculist. 

More  valley  from  Ukiah  to  Willits,  and  then 
we  turned  westward  through  the  virgin  Sher 
wood  Forest  of  magnificent  redwood,  stopping  at 
Alpine  for  the  night  and  continuing  on  through 
Mendocino  County  to  Fort  Bragg  and  "  salt 
water."  We  also  came  to  Fort  Bragg  up  the 
coast  from  Fort  Eoss,  keeping  our  coast  journey 
intact  from  the  Golden  Gate.  The  coast  weather 
was  cool  and  delightful,  the  coast  driving  superb. 


FOUR  HORSES  AND  A  SAILOR       95 

Especially  in  the  Fort  Ross  section  did  we  find 
the  roads  thrilling,  while  all  the  way  along  we 
followed  the  sea.  At  every  stream,  the  road 
skirted  dizzy  cliff -edges,  dived  down  into  lush 
growths  of  forest  and  ferns  and  climbed  out  along 
the  cliff -edges  again.  The  way  was  lined  with 
flowers  —  wild  lilac,  wild  roses,  poppies,  and 
lupins.  Such  lupins !  —  giant  clumps  of  them, 
of  every  lupin-shade  and  -colour.  And  it  was 
along  the  Mendocino  roads  that  Charmian  caused 
many  delays  by  insisting  on  getting  out  to  pick 
the  wild  blackberries,  strawberries,  and  thimble- 
berries  which  grew  so  profusely.  And  ever  we 
caught  peeps,  far  down,  of  steam  schooners  load 
ing  lumber  in  the  rocky  coves;  ever  we  skirted 
the  cliffs,  day  after  day,  crossing  stretches  of 
rolling  farm  lands  and  passing  through  thriving 
villages  and  saw-mill  towns.  Memorable  was 
our  launch-trip  from  Mendocino  City  up  Big 
River,  where  the  steering  gears  of  the  launches 
work  the  reverse  of  anywhere  else  in  the  world; 
where  we  saw  a  stream  of  logs,  of  six  to  twelve 
and  fifteen  feet  in  diameter,  which  filled  the  river 
bed  for  miles  to  the  obliteration  of  any  sign  of 
water;  and  where  wre  were  told  of  a  white  or 
albino  redwood  tree.  We  did  not  see  this  last, 
so  cannot  vouch  for  it. 


96  THE  HUMAN  DKIFT 

All  the  streams  were  filled  with  trout,  and 
more  than  once  we  saw  the  side-hill  salmon  on 
the  slopes.  No,  side-hill  salmon  is  not  a  peripa 
tetic  fish;  it  is  a  deer  out  of  season.  But  the 
trout!  At  Gualala  Charmian  caught  her  first 
one.  Once  before  in  my  life  I  had  caught 
two  ...  on  angleworms.  On  occasion  I  had 
tried  fly  and  spinner  and  never  got  a  strike,  and 
I  had  come  to  believe  that  all  this  talk  of  fly 
fishing  was  just  so  much  nature-faking.  But  on 
the  Gualala  River  I  caught  trout  —  a  lot  of  them 
—  on  fly  and  spinners ;  and  I  was  beginning  to 
feel  quite  an  expert,  until  Nakata,  fishing  on  bot 
tom  with  a  pejlet  of  bread  for  bait,  caught  the 
biggest  trout  of  all.  I  now  affirm  there  is  noth 
ing  in  science  nor  in  art.  Nevertheless,  since 
that  day  poles  and  baskets  have  been  added  to 
our  baggage,  we  tackle  every  stream  we  come  to, 
and  we  no  longer  are  able  to  remember  the  grand 
total  of  our  catch. 

At  Usal,  many  hilly  and  picturesque  miles 
north  of  Fort  Bragg,  we  turned  again  into  the 
interior  of  Mendocino,  crossing  the  ranges  and 
coming  out  in  Humboldt  County  on  the  south 
fork  of  Eel  River  at  Garberville.  Throughout 
the  trip,  from  Marin  County  north,  we  had  been 
warned  of  "bad  roads  ahead.- '  Yet  wre  never 


FOUR  HORSES  AND  A  SAILOR       97 

found  those  bad  roads.  We  seemed  always  to  be 
just  ahead  of  them  or  behind  them.  The  farther 
we  came  the  better  the  roads  seemed,  though  this 
was  probably  due  to  the  fact  that  we  were  learn 
ing  more  and  more  what  four  horses  and  a  light 
rig  could  do  on  a  road.  And  thus  do  I  save  my 
face  with  all  the  counties.  I  refuse  to  m.ake  in 
vidious  road  comparisons.  I  can  add  that  while, 
save  in  rare  instances  on  steep  pitches,  I  have 
trotted  my  horses  down  all  the  grades,  I  have 
never  had  one  horse  fall  down  nor  have  I  had 
to  send  the  rig  to  a  blacksmith  shop  for  repairs. 

Also,  I  am  learning  to  throw  leather.  If  any 
tyro  thinks  it  is  easy  to  take  a  short-handled, 
long-lashed  whip,  and  throw  the  end  of  that  lash 
just  where  he  wants  it,  let  him  put  on  automobile 
goggles  and  try  it.  On  reconsideration,  I  would 
suggest  the  substitution  of  a  wire  fencing-mask 
for  the  goggles.  For  days  I  looked  at  that  whip. 
It  fascinated  me,  and  the  fascination  was  com 
posed  mostly  of  fear.  At  my  first  attempt, 
Charmian  and  Nakata  became  afflicted  with  the 
same  sort  of  fascination,  and  for  a  long  time 
afterward,  whenever  they  saw  me  reach  for  the 
whip,  they  closed  their  eyes  and  shielded  their 
heads  with  their  arms. 

Here's     the     problem.     Instead     of     pulling 


98  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

honestly,  Prince  is  lagging  back  and  manoeuvre- 
ing  for  a  bite  at  Hilda's  neck.  I  have  four  reins 
in  my  hands.  I  must  put  these  four  reins  into 
my  left  hand,  properly  gather  the  whip  handle 
and  the  bight  of  the  lash  in  my  right  hand,  and 
throw  that  lash  past  Maid  without  striking  her 
and  into  Prince.  If  the  lash  strikes  Maid,  her 
thoroughbredness  will  go  up  in  the  air  and  I'll 
have  a  case  of  horse  hysteria  on  my  hands  for 
the  next  half  hour.  But  follow.  The  whole 
problem  is  not  yet  stated.  Suppose  that  I  miss 
Maid  and  reach  the  intended  target.  The  in 
stant  the  lash  cracks,  the  four  horses  jump, 
Prince  most  of  all,  and  his  jump,  with  spread 
wicked  teeth,  is  for  the  back  of  Milda's  neck. 
She  jumps  to  escape  —  which  is  her  second  jump, 
for  the  first  one  came  when  the  lash  exploded. 
The  Outlaw  reaches  for  Maid's  neck,  and  Maid, 
who  has  already  jumped  and  tried  to  bolt,  tries  to 
bolt  harder.  And  all  this  infinitesimal  fraction 
of  time  I  am  trying  to  hold  the  four  animals  with 
my  left  hand,  while  my  whip-lash  writhing 
through  the  air,  is  coming  back  to  me.  Three 
simultaneous  things  I  must  do:  keep  hold  of 
the  four  hands  with  my  left  hand;  slam  on  the 
brake  with  my  foot;  and  on  the  rebound  catch 


FOUR  HORSES  AND  A  SAILOR        99 

that  flying  lash  in  the  hollow  of  my  right  arm 
and  get  the  bight  of  it  safely  into  my  right  hand. 
Then  I  must  get  two  of  the  four  lines  back  into 
my  right  hand  and  keep  the  horses  from  running 
away  or  going  over  the  grade.  Try  it  some  time. 
You  will  find  life  anything  but  wearisome. 
Why,  the  first  time  I  hit  the  mark  and  made  the 
lash  go  off  like  a  revolver  shot,  I  was  so 
astounded  and  delighted  that  I  was  paralysed. 
I  forgot  to  do  any  of  the  multitudinous  other 
things,  tangled  the  whip  lash  in  Maid's  harness, 
and  was  forced  to  call  upon  Charmian  for  assist 
ance.  And  now,  confession.  I  carry  a  few  peb 
bles  handy.  They're  great  for  reaching  Prince 
in  a  tight  place.  But  just  the  same  I'm  learning 
that  whip  every  day,  and  before  I  get  home  I 
hope  to  discard  the  pebbles.  And  as  long  as  I 
rely  on  pebbles,  I  cannot  truthfully  speak  of 
myself  as  "  tooling  a  four-in-hand." 

From  Garberville,  where  we  ate  eel  to  reple 
tion  and  got  acquainted  with  the  aborigines,  we 
drove  down  the  Eel  River  Valley  for  two  days 
through  the  most  unthinkably  glorious  body  of 
redwood  timber  to  be  seen  anywhere  in  Cali 
fornia.  From  Dyerville  on  to  Eureka,  we  caught 
glimpses  of  railroad  construction  and  of  great 


100  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

concrete  bridges  in  the  course  of  building,  which 
advertised  that  at  least  Humboldt  County  was 
going  to  be  linked  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 

We  still  consider  our  trip  is  just  begun.  As 
soon  as  this  is  mailed  from  Eureka,  it's  heigh  ho ! 
for  the  horses  and  pull  on.  We  shall  continue 
up  the  coast,  turn  in  for  Hoopa  Reservation  and 
the  gold  mines,  and  shoot  down  the  Trinity  and 
Klamath  rivers  in  Indian  canoes  to  Requa. 
After  that,  we  shall  go  on  through  Del  Norte 
County  and  into  Oregon.  The  trip  so  far  has 
justified  us  in  taking  the  attitude  that  we  won't 
go  home  until  the  winter  rains  drive  us  in.  And, 
finally,  I  am  going  to  try  the  experiment  of  put 
ting  the  Outlaw  in  the  lead  and  relegating  Prince 
to  his  old  position  in  the  near  wheel.  I  won't 
need  any  pebbles  then.1 

i  In  the  Spriiig  of  1916,  Sonoma  Maid,  mother  of  two  fine 
colts,  died  in  giving  birth  to  a  third.  Also,  during  this  year, 
Prince  contracted  an  incurable  rheumatism,  and  Hilda  began 
to  show  an  incurable  agedness.  Jack  had  always  said  that 
the  team  should  never  leave  the  ranch,  and  so,  following  his 
own  death  in  November,  1916,  we  laid  away  Prince  the 
Love  Horse,  and  Milda  the  Rabbit,  on  our  hillside  in  the 
Valley  of  the  Moon.  Gert  the  Outlaw  still  flourishes  upon 
her  master's  acres,  and  is  the  mother  of  three  fine  colts. — 
C.  K.  L. 


SIX 

A  CLASSIC   OF  THE  SEA 
Introduction  to  "  Two  Tears  Before  the  Mast." 

ONCE  in  a  hundred  years  is  a  book  written 
that  lives  not  alone  for  its  own  century  but 
which  becomes  a  document  for  the  future  cen 
turies.  Such  a  book  is  Dana's.  When  Marry- 
at's  and  Cooper's  sea  novels  are  gone  to  dust, 
stimulating  and  joyful  as  they  have  been  to  gen 
erations  of  men,  still  will  remain  "  Two  Years 
Before  the  Mast." 

Paradoxical  as  it  may  seem,  Dana's  book  is  the 
classic  of  the  sea,  not  because  there  was  anything 
extraordinary  about  Dana,  but  for  the  precise 
contrary  reason  that  he  was  just  an  ordinary, 
normal  man,  clear-seeing,  hard-headed,  con 
trolled,  fitted  with  adequate  education  to  go 
about  the  work.  He  brought  a  trained  mind  to 
put  down  with  untroubled  vision  what  he  saw  of 
a  certain  phase  of  work-a-day  life.  There  was 

nothing  brilliant  nor  fly-away  about  him.     He 

101 


102  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

was  not  a  genius.  His  heart  never  rode  his 
head.  He  was  neither  overlorded  by  sentiment 
nor  hag-ridden  by  imagination.  Otherwise  he 
might  have  been  guilty  of  the  beautiful  exagger 
ations  in  Melville's  "  Typee  "  or  the  imaginative 
orgies  in  the  latter's  "Moby  Dick."  It  was 
Dana's  cool  poise  that  saved  him  from  being 
spread-eagled  and  flogged  when  two  of  his  mates 
were  so  treated ;  it  was  his  lack  of  abandon  that 
prevented  him  from  taking  up  permanently  with 
the  sea,  that  prevented  him  from  seeing  more 
than  one  poetical  spot,  and  more  than  one  ro 
mantic  spot  on  all  the  coast  of  Old  California. 
Yet  these  apparent  defects  were  his  strength. 
They  enabled  him  magnificently  to  write,  and 
for  all  time,  the  picture  of  the  sea-life  of  his  time. 
Written  close  to  the  middle  of  the  last  century, 
such  has  been  the  revolution  worked  in  man's 
method  of  trafficking  with  the  sea,  that  the  life 
and  conditions  described  in  Dana's  book  have 
passed  utterly  away.  Gone  are  the  crack  clip 
pers,  the  driving  captains,  the  hard-bitten  but 
efficient  foremast  hands.  Remain  only  crawling 
cargo  tanks,  dirty  tramps,  greyhound  liners,  and 
a  sombre,  sordid  type  of  sailing  ship.  The  only 
records  broken  to-day  by  sailing  vessels  are  those 
for  slowness.  They  are  no  longer  built  for  speed, 


A  CLASSIC  OF  THE  SEA  103 

nor  are  they  manned  before  the  mast  by  as  sturdy 
a  sailor  stock,  nor  aft  the  mast  are  they  officered 
by  sail-carrying  captains  and  driving  mates. 

Speed  is  left  to  the  liners,  who  run  the  silk, 
and  tea,  and  spices.  Admiralty  courts,  boards 
of  trade,  and  underwriters  frown  upon  driving 
and  sail-carrying.  No  more  are  the  free-and- 
easy,  dare-devil  days,  when  fortunes  were  made 
in  fast  runs  and  lucky  ventures,  not  alone  for 
owners,  but  for  captains  as  well.  Nothing  is 
ventured  now.  The  risks  of  swift  passages  can 
not  be  abided.  Freights  are  calculated  to  the 
last  least  fraction  of  per  cent.  The  captains  do 
no  speculating,  no  bargain-making  for  the  own 
ers.  The  latter  attend  to  all  this,  and  by  wire 
and  cable  rake  the  ports  of  the  seven  seas  in 
quest  of  cargoes,  and  through  their  agents  make 
all  business  arrangements. 

It  has  been  learned  that  small  crews  only,  and 
large  carriers  only,  can  return  a  decent  interest 
on  the  investment.  The  inevitable  corollary  is 
that  speed  and  spirit  are  at  a  discount.  There 
is  no  discussion  of  the  fact  that  in  the  sailing 
merchant  marine  the  seamen,  as  a  class,  have 
sadly  deteriorated.  Men  no  longer  sell  farms  to 
go  to  sea.  But  the  time  of  which  Dana  writes 
was  the  heyday  of  fortune-making  and  adventure 


104  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

on  the  sea  —  with  the  full  connotation  of  hard 
ship  and  peril  always  attendant. 

It  was  Dana's  fortune,  for  the  sake  of  the 
picture  that  the  Pilgrim  was  an  average  ship, 
with  an  average  crew  and  officers,  and  managed 
with  average  discipline.  Even  the  hazing  that 
took  place  after  the  California  coast  was  reached, 
was  of  the  average  sort.  The  Pilgrim  savoured 
not  in  any  way  of  a  hell-ship.  The  captain, 
while  not  the  sweetest-natured  man  in  the  world, 
was  only  an  average  down-east  driver,  neither 
brilliant  nor  slovenly  in  his  seamanship,  neither 
cruel  nor  sentimental  in  the  treatment  of  his  men. 
While,  on  the  one  hand,  there  were  no  extra 
liberty  days,  no  delicacies  added  to  the  meagre 
forecastle  fare,  nor  grog  or  hot  coffee  on  double 
watches,  on  the  other  hand  the  crew  was  not 
chronically  crippled  by  the  continual  play  of 
knuckle-dusters  and  belaying  pins.  Once,  and 
once  only,  were  men  flogged  or  ironed  —  a  very 
fair  average  for  the  year  1834,  for  at  that  time 
flogging  on  board  merchant  vessels  wak  already 
well  on  the  decline. 

The  difference  between  the  sea-life  then  and 
now  can  be  no  better  epitomised  than  in  Dana's 
description  of  the  dress  of  the  sailor  of  his  day : 

"  The   trousers   tight   around   the   hips,   and 


A  CLASSIC  OF  THE  SEA  105 

thence  hanging  long  and  loose  around  the  feet, 
a  superabundance  of  checked  shirt,  a  low- 
crowned,  well-varnished  black  hat,  worn  on  the 
back  of  the  head,  with  half  a  fathom  of  black 
ribbon  hanging  over  the  left  eye,  and  a  peculiar 
tie  to  the  black  silk  neckerchief." 

Though  Dana  sailed  from  Boston  only  three- 
quarters  of  a  century  ago,  much  that  is  at  present 
obsolete  was  then  in  full  sway.  For  instance, 
the  old  word  larboard  was  still  in  use.  He  was 
a  member  of  the  larboard  watch.  The  vessel  was 
on  the  larboard  tack.  It  was  only  the  other  day, 
because  of  its  similarity  in  sound  to  starboard, 
that  larboard  was  changed  to  port.  Try  to 
imagine  "  All  larboard  bowlines  on  deck !  "  being 
shouted  down  into  the  forecastle  of  a  present  day 
ship.  Yet  that  was  the  call  used  on  the  Pilgrim 
to  fetch  Dana  and  the  rest  of  his  watch  on  deck. 

The  chronometer,  which  is  merely  the  least 
imperfect  time-piece  man  has  devised,  makes  pos 
sible  the  surest  and  easiest  method  by  far  of  as 
certaining  longitude.  Yet  the  Pilgrim  sailed  in 
a  day  when  the  chronometer  was  just  coming  into 
general  use.  So  little  was  it  depended  upon  that 
the  Pilgrim  carried  only  one,  and  that  one,  going 
wrong  at  the  outset,  was  never  used  again.  A 
navigator  of  the  present  would  be  aghast  if  asked 


106  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

to  voyage  for  two  years,  from  Boston,  around  the 
Horn  to  California,  and  back  again,  without  a 
chronometer.  In  those  days  such  a  proceeding- 
was  a  matter  of  course,  for  those  were  the  days 
when  dead  reckoning  was  indeed  something  to 
reckon  on,  when  running  down  the  latitude  was 
a  common  way  of  finding  a  place,  and  when  lunar 
observations  were  direly  necessary.  It  may  be 
fairly  asserted  that  very  few  merchant  officers 
of  to-day  ever  make  a  lunar  observation,  and 
that  a  large  percentage  are  unable  to  do  it. 

"Sept.  22nd.y  upon  coming  on  deck  at  seven 
bells  in  the  morning  we  found  the  other  watch 
aloft  throwing  water  upon  the  sails,  and  looking 
astern  we  saw  a  small,  clipper-built  brig  with  a 
black  hull  heading  directly  after  us.  We  went 
to  work  immediately,  and  put  all  the  canvas  upon 
the  brig  which  we  could  get  upon  her,  rigging  out 
oars  for  studding-sail  yards ;  and  continued  wet 
ting  down  the  sails  by  buckets  of  water  whipped 
up  to  the  mast  head.  .  .  .  She  was  armed,  and 
full  of  men,  and  showed  no  colors." 

The  foregoing  sounds  like  a  paragraph  from 
"Midshipman  Easy "  or  the  "Water  Witch," 
rather  than  a  paragraph  from  the  soberest,  faith- 
fulest,  and  most  literal  chronicle  of  the  sea  ever 
written.  And  yet  the  chase  by  a  pirate  occurred, 


A  CLASSIC  OF  THE  SEA  107 

on  board  the  brig  Pilgrim,  on  September  22nd, 
1834  —  something  like  only  two  generations  ago. 

Dana  was  the  thorough-going  type  of  man,  not 
overbalanced  and  erratic,  without  quirk  or  quib 
ble  of  temperament.  He  was  efficient,  but  not 
brilliant.  His  was  a  general  all-around  effi 
ciency.  He  was  efficient  at  the  law;  he  was  effi 
cient  at  college;  he  was  efficient  as  a  sailor;  he 
was  efficient  in  the  matter  of  pride,  when  that 
pride  was  no  more  than  the  pride  of  a  forecastle 
hand,  at  twelve  dollars  a  month,  in  his  seaman's 
task  well  done,  in  the  smart  sailing  of  his  cap 
tain,  in  the  cleanness  and  trimness  of  his  ship. 

There  is  no  sailor  whose  cockles  of  the  heart 
will  not  warm  to  Dana's  description  of  the  first 
time  he  sent  down  a  royal  yard.  Once  or  twice 
he  had  seen  it  done.  He  got  an  old  hand  in  the 
crew  to  coach  him.  And  then,  the  first  anchor 
age  at  Monterey,  being  pretty  thick  with  the 
second  mate,  he  got  him  to  ask  the  mate  to  be 
sent  up  the  first  time  the  royal  yards  were  struck. 
"  Fortunately,"  as  Dana  describes  it,  "  I  got 
through  without  any  word  from  the  officer;  and 
heard  the  <  well  done  ?  of  the  mate,  when  the  yard 
reached  the  deck,  with  as  much  satisfaction  as  I 
ever  felt  at  Cambridge  on  seeing  a  '  bene '  at  the 
foot  of  a  Latin  exercise." 


108  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

"  This  was  the  first  time  I  had  taken  a 
weather  ear-ring,  and  I  felt  not  a  little  proud  to 
sit  astride  of  the  weather  yard-arm,  past  the 
ear-ring,  and  sing  out  '  Haul  out  to  leeward!'" 
He  had  been  over  a  year  at  sea  before  he  essayed 
this  able  seaman's  task,  but  he  did  it,  and  he  did 
it  with  pride.  And  with  pride,  he  went  down  a 
four-hundred  foot  cliff,  on  a  pair  of  top-gallant 
studding-sail  halyards  bent  together,  to  dislodge 
several  dollars  worth  of  stranded  bullock  hides, 
though  all  the  acclaim  he  got  from  his  mates 

was:     "What  a  d d  fool  you  were  to  risk 

your  life  for  half  a  dozen  hides !  " 

In  brief,  it  was  just  this  efficiency  in  pride,  as 
well  as  work,  that  enabled  Dana  to  set  down,  not 
merely  the  photograph  detail  of  life  before  the 
mast  and  hide-droghing  on  the  coast  of  Cali 
fornia,  but  of  the  unvarnished,  simple  psychology 
and  ethics  of  the  forecastle  hands  who  droghed 
the  hides,  stood  at  the  wheel,  made  and  took  in 
sail,  tarred  down  the  rigging,  holystoned  the 
decks,  turned  in  all-standing,  grumbled  as  they 
cut  about  the  kid,  criticised  the  seamanship  of 
their  officers,  and  estimated  the  duration  of  their 
exile  from  the  cubic  space  of  the  hide-house. 

JACK  LONDON. 

Glen  Ellen,  California, 
August  13,  1911. 


A  WICKED  WOMAN 

( Curtain-Raiser ) 
BY  JACK  LONDON 


Scene  —  California. 

Time  — Afternoon  of  a  summer  day. 


CHARACTERS 

LORETTA,  A  sweet,  young  thing.  Frightfully  in 
nocent.  About  nineteen  years  old.  Slender, 
delicate,  a  fragile  flower.  Ingenuous. 

NED  BASHFORD,  A  jaded  young  man  of  the  world, 
who  has  philosophised  his  experiences  and  who 
is  without  faith  in  the  veracity  or  purity  of 
women. 

BILLY  MARSH,  A  boy  from  a  country  town  who  is 
just  about  as  innocent  as  Loretta.  Awkward. 
Positive.  Raw  and  callow  youth. 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY,  A  society  woman,  good- 
hearted,  and  a  match-maker. 

JACK  HEMINGWAY,  Her  husband. 
MAID. 


A  WICKED  WOMAN 

[Curtain  rises  on  a  conventional  living  room  of 
a  country  house  in  California.  It  is  the  Hem 
ingway  house  at  Santa  Clara.  The  room  is 
remarkable  for  magnificent  stone  fireplace  at 
rear  centre.  On  either  side  of  fireplace  are 
generous,  diamond-paned  windows.  Wide, 
curtained  doorways  to  right  and  left.  To  left, 
front,  table,  with  vase  of  flowers  and  chairs. 
To  right,  front,  grand  piano.] 

[Curtain  discovers  LORETTA  seated  at  piano,  not 
playing,  her  back  to  it,  facing  NED  BASHFORD, 
who  is  standing.] 

LORETTA 

[Petulantly,  fanning  herself  with  sheet  of 
music.]  No,  I  won't  go  fishing.  It's  too  warm. 
Besides,  the  fish  won't  bite  so  early  in  the  after 
noon. 

NED 

Oh,  Come  on.  It's  not  warm  at  all.  And 
anyway,  we  won't  really  fish.  I  want  to  tell 
you  something. 

in 


112  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

LORETTA 

[Still  petulantly.]  You  are  always  wanting 
to  tell  me  something. 

NED 

Yes,  but  only  in  fun.  This  is  different.  This 
is  serious.  Our  .  .  .  my  happiness  depends 
upon  it, 

LORETTA 

[Speaking  eagerly,  no  longer  petulant,  looking 
serious  and  delighted,  divining  a  proposal.] 
Then  don't  wait.  Tell  me  right  here. 

NED 
[Almost  threateningly.]     Shall  I? 

LORETTA 

[Challenging.]     Yes. 

[He  looks  around  apprehensively  as  though 
fearing  interruption,  clears  his  throat, 
takes  resolution,  also  takes  LORETTA'S 
hand.] 

[LORETTA  is  startled,  timid,  yet  willing  to 
hear,  naively  unable  to  conceal  her  love 
for  him.] 

NED 

[Speaking  softly.]  Loretta  ...  I  ...  ever 
since  I  met  you  I  have  — 


A  WICKED  WOMAN  113 

[JACK  HEMINGWAY  appears  in  the  doorway 

to  the  lefty  just  entering.] 
[Ned  suddenly  drops  LORETTA^S  hand.    He 

shows  exasperation.] 

[LORETTA  shows  disappointment  at  inter 
ruption.] 

NED 
Confound  it ! 

LORETTA 
[Shocked.]     Ned!     Why  will  you  swear  so? 

NED 
[Testily.]     That  isn't  swearing. 

LORETTA 
What  is  it,  pray? 

NED 
Displeasuring. 

JACK  HEMINGWAY 

[Who  is  crossing  over  to  right.]     Squabbling 
again? 

LORETTA 

[Indignantly  and  with  dignity.]     No,  we're 
not. 

NED 
[Gruffly.]     What  do  you  want  now? 


114  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

JACK  HEMINGWAY 
[Enthusiastically.]     Come  on  fishing. 

NED 
[Snappily.]     No.     It's  too  warm. 

JACK  HEMINGWAY 

[Resignedly,  going  out  right.]  You  needn't 
take  a  fellow's  head  off. 

LORETTA 
I  thought  you  wanted  to  go  fishing. 

NED 
Not  with  Jack. 

LORETTA 

[Accusingly,  fanning  herself  vigorously.] 
And  you  told  me  it  wasn't  warm  at  all. 

NED 

[Speaking  softly.]  That  isn't  what  I  wanted 
to  tell  you,  Loretta.  [He  takes  her  hand.] 
Dear  Loretta  — 

[Enter  abruptly  ALICE  HEMINGWAY  from 

right.] 
[LORETTA  sharply  jerks  her  hand  away,  and 

looks  put  out.] 
[NED  tries  not  to  look  awkward.] 


A  WICKED  WOMAN  115 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 
Goodness !     I  thought  you'd  both  gone  fishing ! 

LORETTA 

[Sweetly.]  Is  there  anything  you  want, 
Alice? 

NED 

[Trying  to  be  courteous.]  Anything  I  can 
do? 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 

[Speaking  quickly,  and  trying  to  withdraw.] 
No,  no.  I  only  came  to  see  if  the  mail  had  ar 
rived. 

LORETTA  AND  NED 
[Speaking  together.]     No,  it  hasn't  arrived. 

LORETTA 

[Suddenly  moving  toward  door  to  right.]  I 
am  going  to  see. 

[NED  looks  at  her  reproachfully.] 
[LORETTA  looks  back  tantalisingly  from  door 
way  and  disappears.] 

[NED  flings  himself  disgustedly  into  Morris 
chair.] 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 
[Moving  over  and  standing  in  front  of  him. 


116  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

Speaks  accusingly.]     What  have  you  been  say 
ing  to  her? 

NED 
[Disgruntled.]     Nothing. 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 
[Threateningly.]     Now  listen  to  me,  Ned. 

NED 

[Earnestly.]  On  my  word,  Alice,  I've  been 
saying  nothing  to  her. 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 

[With  sudden  change  of  front.]  Then  you 
ought  to  have  been  saying  something  to  her. 

NED 

[Irritably.  Getting  chair  for  her,  seating  her, 
and  seating  himself  again.]  Look  here,  Alice,  I 
know  your  game.  You  invited  me  down  here  to 
make  a  fool  of  me. 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 

Nothing  of  the  sort,  sir.  I  asked  you  down  to 
meet  a  sweet  and  unsullied  girl  —  the  sweetest, 
most  innocent  and  ingenuous  girl  in  the  world. 

NED 
[Dryly.]     That's  what  you  said  in  your  letter. 


A  WICKED  WOMAN  117 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 

And  that's  why  you  came.  Jack  had  been 
trying  for  a  year  to  get  you  to  come.  He  did 
not  know  what  kind  of  a  letter  to  write. 

NED 

If  you  think  I  came  because  of  a  line  in  a  letter 
about  a  girl  I'd  never  seen  — 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 

[Mockingly.]  The  poor,  jaded,  world-worn 
man,  who  is  no  longer  interested  in  women 
.  .  .  and  girls!  The  poor,  tired  pessimist  who 
has  lost  all  faith  in  the  goodness  of  women  — 

NED 
For  which  you  are  responsible. 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 
[Incredulously.]     I? 

NED 

You  are  responsible.  Why  did  you  throw  me 
over  and  marry  Jack? 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 
Do  you  want  to  know? 

NED 
Yes. 


118  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 

[Judiciomly '.]  First,  because  I  did  not  love 
you.  Second,  because  you  did  not  love  me. 
[She  smiles  at  his  protesting  hand  and  at  the 
protesting  expression  on  his  face.]  And  third, 
because  there  were  just  about  twenty -seven  other 
women  at  that  time  that  you  loved,  or  thought 
you  loved.  That  is  why  I  married  Jack.  And 
that  is  why  you  lost  faith  in  the  goodness  of 
women.  You  have  only  yourself  to  blame. 

NED 

[Admiringly.]  You  talk  so  convincingly.  I 
almost  believe  you  as  I  listen  to  you.  And  yet  I 
know  all  the  time  that  you  are  like  all  the  rest 
of  your  sex  —  faithless,  unveracious,  and  .  .  . 

[He  glares  at  her,  but  does  not  proceed.} 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 
Go  on.     Pm  not  afraid. 

NED 
[With  finality.]     And  immoral. 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 
Oh!    You  wretch! 

NED 
[Gloatingly.]     That's       right.     Get       angry. 


A  WICKED  WOMAN  119 

You  may  break  the  furniture  if  you  wish.     I 
don't  mind. 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 

[With  sudden  change  of  front,  softly.]  And 
how  about  Loretta? 

[NED  gasps  and  remains  silent.] 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 

The  depths  of  duplicity  that  must  lurk  under 
that  sweet  and  innocent  exterior  .  .  .  according 
to  your  philosophy ! 

NED 

[Earnestly.]  Loretta  is  an  exception,  I  con 
fess.  She  is  all  that  you  said  in  your  letter. 
She  is  a  little  fairy,  an  angel.  I  never  dreamed 
of  anything  like  her.  It  is  remarkable  to  find 
such  a  woman  in  this  age. 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 
[Encouragingly.]     She  is  so  naive. 

NED 

[Taking  the  bait.]  Yes,  isn't  she?  Her  face 
and  her  tongue  betray  all  her  secrets. 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 
[Nodding  her  head.]     Yes,  I  have  noticed  it. 


120  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

NED 
[Delightedly.]     Have  you? 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 

She  cannot  conceal  anything.  Do  you  know 
that  she  loves  you? 

NED 

[Falling  into  the  trap,  eagerly.}  Do  you 
think  so? 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 

[Laughing  and  rising.}  And  to  think  I  once 
permitted  you  to  make  love  to  me  for  three 
weeks ! 

[Ned  rises.] 

[MAID  enters  from  left  with  letters,  which 
she  brings  to  ALICE  HEMINGWAY.] 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 

[Running  over  letters.]  None  for  you,  Ned. 
[Selecting  two  letters  for  herself.]  Tradesmen. 
[Handing  remainder  of  letters  to  MAID.]  And 
three  for  Loretta.  [Speaking  to  MAID.]  Put 
them  on  the  table,  Josie. 

[Maid  puts  letters  on  table  to  left  front,  and 
makes  exit  to  left.] 


A  WICKED  WOMAN  121 

NED 

[With  shade  of  jealousy.]     Loretta  seems  to 
have  quite  a  correspondence. 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 

[With  a  sigh.]     Yes,  as  I  used  to  when  I  was  a 
girl. 

NED 
But  hers  are  family  letters. 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 
Yes,  I  did  not  notice  any  from  Billy. 

NED 
[Faintly.]     Billy? 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 

[Nodding.]     Of  course  she  has  told  you  about 
him? 

NED 
[Gasping.]     She  has  had  lovers  .  .  .  already? 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 
And  why  not?     She  is  nineteen. 

NED 
[Haltingly.]     This  ...  er  ...  this  Billy  .  .  .  ? 


122  THE  HUMAN  DKIFT 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 

[Laughing  and  putting  her  hand  reassuringly 
on  his  arm.]     Now  don't  be  alarmed,  poor,  tired 
philosopher.     She  doesn't  love  Billy  at  all. 
[LORETTA  enters  from  right.] 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 

[To  LORETTA,  nodding  toward  table.]  Three 
letters  for  you. 

LORETTA 
[Delightedly.]     Oh!     Thank  you. 

[LORETTA  trips  swiftly  across  to  table,  looks 
at  letters,  sits  down,  opens  letters,  and 
begins  to  read.] 

NED 
[Suspiciously.]     But  Billy? 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 

I  am  afraid  he  loves  her  very  hard.  That  is 
why  she  is  here.  They  had  to  send  her  away. 
Billy  was'  making  life  miserable  for  her.  They 
were  little  children  together  —  playmates.  And 
Billy  has  been,  well,  importunate.  And  Loretta, 
poor  child,  does  not  know  anything  about  mar 
riage.  That  is  all. 

NED 
[Reassured.]     Oh,  I  see. 


A  WICKED  WOMAN  123 

[ALICE  HEMINGWAY  starts  slowly  toward 
right  exit,  continuing  conversation  and 
accompanied  by  NED.] 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 

[Calling  to  LORETTA.]  Are  you  going  fish 
ing,  Loretta? 

(  LORETTA  looks  up  from  letter  and  shakes 
head.] 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 
[To  NED.]     Then  you're  not,  I  suppose. 

NED 
No,  it's  too  warm. 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 
Then  I  know  the  place  for  you. 

NED 
Where? 

ALICE  HEMINGWAY 

Eight  here.  [Looks  significantly  in  direction 
of  LORETTA.]  Now  is  your  opportunity  to  say 
what  you  ought  to  say. 

[ALICE   HEMINGWAY   laughs  teasingly  and 

goes  out  to  right.] 
[NED  hesitates ,  starts  to  follow  her,  looks  at 


124  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

LORETTA,  and  stops.  He  twists  his 
moustache  and  continues  to  look  at  her 
meditatively.] 

[  LORETTA  is  unaware  of  his  presence  and 
goes  on  reading.  Finishes  letter,  folds  it, 
replaces  in  envelope,  looks  up,  and  dis 
covers  NED.] 

LORETTA 
[Startled.]     Oh!     I  thought  you  were  gone. 

NED 

[Walking  across  to  her.]  I  thought  I'd  stay 
and  finish  our  conversation. 

LORETTA 

[Willingly,  settling  herself  to  listen.]  Yes, 
you  were  going  to  ...  [Drops  eyes  and  ceases 
talking.] 

NED 

[Taking  her  hand,  tenderly.]  I  little  dreamed 
when  I  came  down  here  visiting  that  I  was  to 
meet  my  destiny  in —  [Abruptly  releases 
LORETTA'S  hand.] 

[MAID  enters  from  left  with  tray.] 
[LORETTA  glances  into  tray  and  discovers 
that  it  is  empty.     She  looks  inquiringly  at 
MAID.] 


A  WICKED  WOMAN  125 

MAID 

A  gentleman  to  see  you.  He  hasn't  any  card. 
He  said  for  me  to  tell  you  that  it  was  Billy. 

LORETTA 

[Starting,  looking  with  dismay  and  appeal  to 
NED.]  Oh!  ...  Ned! 

NED 

[Gracefully  and  courteously,  rising  to  his  feet 
and  preparing  to  go.]  If  you'll  excuse  me  now, 
I'll  wait  till  afterward  to  tell  you  what  I  wanted. 

LORETTA 
[In  dismay.]     What  shall  I  do? 

NED 

[Pausing.]  Don't  you  want  to  see  him? 
[LORETTA  shakes  her  head.]  Then  don't. 

LORETTA 

[Slowly.]     I    can't    do    that.     We    are    old 

friends.     We  .  .  .  were  children  together.     [To 

the  MAID.]     Send  him  in.     [To  NED,  who  has 

started  to  go  out  toward  right.]     Don't  go,  Ned. 

[MAID  makes  exit  to  left.] 

NED 

[Hesitating  a  moment.]     I'll  come  back. 
[NED  makes  exit  to  right.] 


126  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

[LORETTA,  left  alone  on  stage,  shows  per 
turbation  and  dismay.] 

[BILLY  enters  from  left.  Stands  in  doorway 
a  moment.  His  shoes  are  dusty.  He 
looks  overheated.  His  eyes  and  face 
brighten  at  sight  of  LORETTA.] 

BILLY 
[Stepping  forward,  ardently.]     Loretta ! 

LORETTA 

[Not  exactly  enthusiastic  in  her  reception, 
going  slowly  to  meet  him.]  You  never  said  you 
were  coming. 

[BILLY  shows  that  he  expects  to  kiss  her,  but 
she  merely  shakes  his  hand.] 

BILLY 

[Looking  down  at  his  very  dusty  shoes.]  I 
walked  from  the  station. 

LORETTA 

If  you  had  let  me  know,  the  carriage  would 
have  been  sent  for  you. 

BILLY 

[With  expression  of  shrewdness.]  If  I  had  let 
you  know,  you  wouldn't  have  let  me  come. 

[BILLY  looks  around  stage  cautiously,  then 
tries  to  kiss  her.] 


A  WICKED  WOMAN  127 

LORETTA 

[Refusing  to  be  kissed.]     Won't  you  sit  down? 

BILLY 

[Coaxingly.]  Go  on,  just  one.  [LORETTA 
shakes  head  and  holds  him  off.]  Why  not? 
We're  engaged. 

LORETTA 

[With  decision.]  We're  not.  You  know  we're 
not.  You  know  I  broke  it  off  the  day  before  I 
caine  away.  And  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  you'd  better  sit 
down. 

[BILLY  sits  down  on  edge  of  chair.  LORETTA 
seats  herself  by  table.  BILLY,  without  ris 
ing,  jerks  his  chair  forward  till  they  are 
facing  each  other,  his  knees  touching  hers. 
He  yearns  toward  her.  She  moves  back 
her  chair  slightly.] 

BILLY 

[With  supreme  confidence.]     That's  what  I 

came  to  see  you  for  —  to  get  engaged  over  again. 

[BILLY  hudges  chair  forward  and  tries  to 

take  her  hand.] 
[LORETTA  hudges  her  chair  back.] 

BILLY 
[Drawing  out  large  silver  watch  and  looking  at 


128  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

it.]  Now  look  here,  Loretta,  I  haven't  any  time 
to  lose.  I've  got  to  leave  for  that  train  in  ten 
minutes.  And  I  want  you  to  set  the  day. 

LORETTA 

But  we're  not  engaged,  Billy.  So  there  can't 
be  any  setting  of  the  day. 

BILLY 

[With  confidence.]  But  we're  going  to  be. 
[Suddenly  breaking  out.]  Oh,  Loretta,  if  you 
only  knew  how  I've  suffered.  That  first  night  I 
didn't  sleep  a  wink.  I  haven't  slept  much  ever 
since.  [Hudges  chair  forward.]  I  walk  the 
floor  all  night.  [Solemnly.]  Loretta,  I  don't 
eat  enough  to  keep  a  canary  bird  alive.  Lor 
etta  .  .  .  [Hudges  chair  forward.] 

LORETTA 

[Hudging  her  chair  back  maternally.']  Billy, 
what  you  need  is  a  tonic.  Have  you  seen  Doctor 
Haskins? 

BILLY 

[Looking  at  watch  and  evincing  signs  of 
haste.]  Loretta,  when  a  girl  kisses  a  man,  it 
means  she  is  going  to  marry  him. 

LORETTA 
I    know    it,    Billy.     But  .  .  .   [She    glances 


A  WICKED  WOMAN  129 

toward  letters  on  table.]  Captain  Kitt  doesn't 
want  me  to  marry  you.  He  says  .  .  .  [She  takes 
letter  and  begins  to  open  it.] 

BILLY 

Never  mind  what  Captain  Kitt  says.  He 
wants  you  to  stay  and  be  company  for  your  sister. 
He  doesn't  want  you  to  marry  me  because  he 
knows  she  wants  to  keep  you. 

LORETTA 

Daisy  doesn't  want  to  keep  me.  She  wants 
nothing  but  my  own  happiness.  She  says  — 
[She  takes  second  letter  from  table  and  begins  to 
open  it.] 

BILLY 
Never  mind  what  Daisy  says  — 

LORETTA 

[Taking  third  letter  from  table  and  beginning 
to  open  it.]  And  Martha  says  — 

BILLY 

[Angrily.]  Darn  Martha  and  the  whole  boil 
ing  of  them ! 

LORETTA 
[Reprovingly.]     Oh,  Billy! 


130  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

BILLY 

[Defensively.]  Darn  isn't  swearing,  and  you 
know  it  isn't. 

[There  is  an  awkward  pause.  BILLY  has  lost 
the  thread  of  the  conversation  and  has 
vacant  expression.] 

BILLY 

[Suddenly  recollecting.]  Never  mind  Captain 
Kitt,  and  Daisy,  and  Martha,  and  what  they 
want.  The  question  is,  what  do  you  want? 

LORETTA 

[Appealingly.]     Oh,  Billy,  I'm  so  unhappy. 
BILLY 

[Ignoring  the  appeal  and  pressing  home  the 
point.]  The  thing  is,  do  you  want  to  marry  me? 
[He  looks  at  his  watch.]  Just  answer  that. 

LORETTA 
Aren't  you  afraid  you'll  miss  that  train? 

BILLY 
Darn  the  train ! 

LORETTA 
[Reprovingly.]     Oh,  Billy! 

BILLY 
[Most      irascibly.]     Darn      isn't      swearing. 


A  WICKED  WOMAN  131 

[Plaintively.]  That's  the  way  you  always  put 
me  off.  I  didn't  coine  all  the  way  here  for  a 
train.  I  came  for  you.  Now  just  answer  me  one 
thing.  Do  you  want  to  marry  me? 

LORETTA 

[Firmly.]     No,  I  don't  want  to  marry  you. 

BILLY 
[With  assurance.]     But  you've  got  to,  just  the 

same. 

LORETTA 

[With  defiance.]     Got  to? 

BILLY 

[With  unshaken  assurance.]     That's  what  I 
said  —  got  to.     And  I'll  see  that  you  do. 

LORETTA 

[Blazing  with  anger.]     I  am  no  longer  a  child. 
You  can't  bully  me,  Billy  Marsh ! 

BILLY 

[Coolly.]     I'm  not  trying  to  bully  you.     I'm 
trying  to  save  your  reputation. 

LORETTA 

[Faintly.]     Reputation? 
BILLY 
[Nodding.]     Yes,  reputation.     [He  pauses  for 


132  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

a  moment^  then  speaks  very  solemnly.}  Loretta, 
when  a  woman  kisses  a  man,  she's  got  to  marry 
him. 

LORETTA 
[Appalled,  faintly.}     Got  to? 

BILLY 
[Dogmatically.}     It  is  the  custom. 

LORETTA 

[Brokenly.}  And  when  ...  a  ...  a  woman 
kisses  a  man  and  doesn't  .  .  .  marry  him  .  .  .? 

BILLY 

Then  there  is  a  scandal.     That's  where  all  the 
scandals  you  see  in  the  papers  come  from. 
[BILLY  looks  at  watch.] 
[LORETTA  in  silent  despair.] 

LORETTA 

[In  abasement.]  You  are  a  good  man,  Billy. 
[BILLY  shows  that  he  believes  it.]  And  I  am  a 
very  wicked  woman. 

BILLY 
No,  you're  not,  Loretta.     You  just  didn't  know. 

LORETTA 

[With  a  gleam  of  hope.]  But  you  kissed  me 
first. 


A  WICKED  WOMAN  133 

BILLY 
It  doesn't  matter.     You  let  me  kiss  you. 

LORETTA 

[Hope  dying  down.]     But  not  at  first. 

BILLY 

But  you  did  afterward  and  that's  what  counts. 
You  let  me  kiss  you  in  the  grape-arbor.  You  let 
me  — 

LORETTA 
[  With  anguish.  ]     Don't !     Don't ! 

BILLY 

[Relentlessly.]  — kiss  you  when  you  were 
playing  the  piano.  You  let  me  kiss  you  that  day 
of  the  picnic.  And  I  can't  remember  all  the 
times  you  let  me  kiss  you  good  night. 

LORETTA 
[Beginning  to  weep.]     Not  more  than  five. 

BILLY 
[With  conviction.]     Eight  at  least. 

LORETTA 

[Reproachfully,  still  weeping.]  You  told  me 
it  was  all  right. 


134  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

BILLY 

[Emphatically.]  So  it  was  all  right  —  until 
you  said  you  wouldn't  marry  me  after  all.  Then 
it  was  a  scandal  —  only  no  one  knows  it  yet.  If 
you  marry  me  no  one  ever  will  know  it.  [Looks 
at  watch.]  I've  got  to  go.  [Stands  up.] 
Where's  my  hat? 

LORETTA 
[Sobbing.]     This  is  awful. 

BILLY 

[Approvingly.]  You  bet  it's  awful.  And 
there's  only  one  way  out.  [Looks  anxiously 
about  for  hat.]  What  do  you  say? 

LORETTA 

[Brokenly.]  I  must  think.  I'll  write  to  you. 
[Faintly.]  The  train?  You're  hat's  in  the  hall. 

BILLY 

[Looks  at  watch,  hastily  tries  to  kiss  her,  suc 
ceeds  only  in  shaking  hand,  starts  across  stage 
toward  left.]  All  right.  You  write  to  me. 
Write  to-morrow.  [Stops  for  a  moment  in  door 
way  and  speaks  very  solemnly.]  Remember, 
Loretta,  there  must  be  no  scandal. 
[BILLY  goes  out.] 


A  WICKED  WOMAN  135 

[LORETTA  sits  in  chair  quietly  weeping. 
Slowly  dries  eyes,  rises  from  chair,  and 
stands,  undecided  as  to  what  she  will  do 
next. 

[NED  enters  from  right,  peeping.  Discovers 
that  LORETTA  is  alone,  and  comes  quietly 
across  stage  to  her.  When  NED  comes  up 
to  her  she  begins  weeping  again  and  tries 
to  turn  her  head  away.  NED  catches  both 
her  hands  in  his  and  compels  her  to  look 
at  him.  She  weeps  harder.] 

NED 

[Putting  one  arm  protectingly  around  her 
shoulder  and  drawing  her  toward  him.]  There, 
there,  little  one,  don't  cry. 

LORETTA 

[Turning  her  face  to  his  shoulder  like  a  tired 
child,  sobbing.]  Oh,  Ned,  if  you  only  knew  how 
wicked  I  am. 

NED 

[Smiling  indulgently.]  What  is  the  matter, 
little  one?  Has  your  dearly  beloved  sister  failed 
to  write  to  you?  [LORETTA  shakes  head.]  Has 
Hemingway  been  bullying  you?  [LORETTA 
shakes  head.]  Then  it  must  have  been  that  caller 


136  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

of  yours?  [Long  pause,  during  which  LORETTA'S 
weeping  grows  more  violent.]  Tell  me  what's 
the  matter,  and  we'll  see  what  I  can  do.  [He 
lightly  kisses  her  hair  —  so  lightly  that  she  does 
not  know. 

LORETTA 

[Sobbing.]  I  can't.  You  will  despise  me. 
Oh,  Ned,  I  am  so  ashamed. 

NED 

[Laughing  incredulously.]  Let  us  forget  all 
about  it.  I  want  to  tell  you  something  that  may 
make  me  very  happy.  My  fondest  hope  is  that 
it  will  make  you  happy,  too.  Loretta,  I  love 
you  — 

LORETTA 

[Uttering  a  sharp  cry  of  delight,  then  moan 
ing.]  Too  late! 

NED 
[Surprised.]     Too  late? 

LORETTA 

[Still  moaning.]  Oh,  why  did  I?  [NED 
somewhat  stiffens.]  I  was  so  young.  I  did  not 
know  the  world  then. 


A  WICKED  WOMAN  137 

NED 
What  is  it  all  about  anyway? 

LORETTA 

Oh,  I  ...  he  ...  Billy  ...  I  am  a  wicked 
woman,  Ned.  I  know  you  will  never  speak  to  me 
again. 

NED 

This  ...  er  ...  this  Billy  ^- what  has  he 
been  doing? 

LORETTA 

I  ...  he  ...  I  didn't  know.  I  was  so  young. 
I  could  not  help  it.  Oh,  I  shall  go  mad,  I  shall 
go  mad ! 

[NED^s  encircling  arm  goes  limp.     He  gently 
disengages  her  and  deposits  her  in  big 
chair.] 
[ LORETTA  buries  her  face  and  sobs  afresh.] 

NED 

[Twisting  moustache  fiercely,  regarding  her 
dubiously,  hesitating  a  moment,  then  drawing  up 
chair  and  sitting  down.]  I  ...  I  do  not  under 
stand. 

LORETTA 
[Wailing.]     I  am  so  unhappy! 


138  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

NED 
[Inquisitorially.]     Why  unhappy? 

LORETTA 
Because  ...  he  ...  he  wants  to  marry  me. 

NED 

[His  face  brightening  instantly,  leaning  for 
ward  and  laying  a  hand  soothingly  on  hers.] 
That  should  not  make  any  girl  unhappy.  Be 
cause  you  don't  love  him  is  no  reason  — 
[Abruptly  breaking  off.]  Of  course  you  don't 
love  him?  [LORETTA  shakes  her  head  and  shoul 
ders  vigorously.  ]  What  ? 

LORETTA 

[Explosively.]  No,  I  don't  love  Billy!  I 
don't  want  to  love  Billy! 

NED 

[With  confidence.]  Because  you  don't  love 
him  is  no  reason  that  you  should  be  unhappy  just 
because  he  has  proposed  to  you. 

LORETTA 

[Sobbing.]  That's  the  trouble.  I  wish  I  did 
love  him.  Oh,  I  wish  I  were  dead. 

NED 
[Growing  complacent.]     Now  my  dear  child, 


A  WICKED  WOMAN  139 

you  are  worrying  yourself  over  trifles.  [His  sec 
ond  hand  joins  the  first  in  holding  her  hands.] 
Women  do  it  every  day.  Because  you  have 
changed  your  mind,  or  did  not  know  your  mind, 
because  you  have  —  to  use  an  unnecessarily  harsh 
word  —  jilted  a  man  — 

LORETTA 

[Interrupting,  raising  her  head  and  looking  at 
him.]     Jilted?     Oh,  Ned,  if  that  were  all ! 

NED 

[Hollow  voice.]     All! 

[NED'S  hands  slowly  retreat  from  hers.  He 
opens  his  mouth  as  though  to  speak  fur 
ther,  then  changes  his  mind  and  remains 
silent. 

LORETTA 

[Protestingly.]     But  I  don't  want  to  marry 
him! 

NED 
Then  I  shouldn't. 

LORETTA 
But  I  ought  to  marry  him. 

NED 

Ought  to  marry  him?     [LORETTA  nods.]     That 
is  a  strong  word. 


140  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

LORETTA 

[Nodding.]  I  know  it  is.  [Her  lips  are 
trembling,  but  she  strives  for  control  and  man 
ages  to  speak  more  calmly.]  I  am  a  wicked 
woman.  A  terrible  wicked  woman.  No  one 
knows  how  wicked  I  am  .  .  .  except  Billy. 

NED 

[Starting,  looking  at  her  queerly.]  He  .  .  . 
Billy  knows?  [LORETTA  nods.  He  debates  with 
himself  a  moment.]  Tell  me  about  it.  You 
must  tell  me  all  of  it. 

LORETTA 
[Faintly,  as  though  about  to  weep  again.]     All 

of  it? 

NED 

[Firmly.]     Yes,  all  of  it. 

LORETTA 

[Haltingly.]  And  .  .  .  will  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  ever 
.  .  .  forgive  .  .  .  me? 

NED 

[Drawing  a  long  breath,  desperately.]  Yes, 
Fll  forgive  you.  Go  ahead. 

LORETTA 
There  was  no  one  to  tell  me.     We  were  with 


A  WICKED  WOMAN  141 

each  other  so  much.     I  did  not  know  anything  of 
the  world  .  .  .  then.     [Pauses.] 

NED 
[Impatiently.]     Go  on. 

LORETTA 

If  I  had  only  known.     [Pauses.] 

NED 

[Biting  his  lip  and  clenching  his  hands.]  Yes, 
yes.  Go  on. 

LORETTA 
We  were  together  almost  every  evening. 

NED 
[Savagely.]     Billy? 

LORETTA 

Yes,  of  course,  Billy.  We  were  with  each  other 
so  much.  ...  If  I  had  only  known.  .  .  .  There 
was  no  one  to  tell  me  ....  I  was  so  young  .  .  . 
[Breaks  down  crying.] 

NED 

[Leaping  to  his  feet,  explosively.]  The  scoun 
drel! 

LORETTA 

[Lifting  her  head.]  Billy  is  not  a  scoundrel 
...  He  ...  he  ...  is  a  good  man. 


142  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

NED 

[Sarcastically. ]  I  suppose  you'll  be  telling  me 
next  that  it  was  all  your  fault.  [LORETTA  nods.] 
What! 

LORETTA 

[Steadily.]  It  was  all  my  fault.  I  should 
never  have  let  him.  I  was  to  blame. 

NED 

[Paces  up  and  down  for  a  minute,  stops  in 
front  of  her,  and  speaks  with  resignation.]  All 
right.  I  don't  blame  you  in  the  least,  Loretta. 
And  you  have  been  very  honest.  It  is  ... 
er  .  .  .  commendable.  But  Billy  is  right,  and 
you  are  wrong.  You  must  get  married. 

LORETTA 
[In  dim,  far-away  voice.]     To  Billy? 

NED 

Yes,  to  Billy.  I'll  see  to  it.  Where  does  he 
live?  I'll  make  him.  If  he  won't  I'll  .  .  .  I'll 
shoot  him ! 

LORETTA 

[Crying  out  with  alarm.]  Oh,  Ned,  you  won't 
do  that? 


A  WICKED  WOMAN  143 

NED 
[Sternly.]     I  shall. 

LORETTA 

But  I  don't  want  to  marry  Billy. 

NED 

[Sternly.]     You  must.     And  Billy  must.     Do 
you  understand?    It  is  the  only  thing. 

LORETTA 
That's  what  Billy  said. 

NED 
[Triumphantly.]     You  see,  I  am  right. 

LORETTA 

And  if  ...  if  I  don't  marry  him  .  .  .  there 
will  be  ...  scandal? 

NED 
[Calmly.]     Yes,  there  will  be  scandal. 

LORETTA 

That's  what  Billy  said.     Oh,  I  am  so  unhappy ! 
[LORETTA  breaks  down  into  violent  weeping.] 
[NED  paces  grimly  up  and  down,  now  and 
again  fiercely  twisting  his  moustache.] 

LORETTA 
[Face  buried,  sobbing  and  crying  all  the  time.] 


144  THE  HUMAN  DKIFT 

I  don't  want  to  leave  Daisy!  I  don't  want  to 
leave  Daisy!  What  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I 
do?  How  was  I  to  know?  He  didn't  tell  me. 
Nobody  else  ever  kissed  me.  [NED  stops  curi 
ously  to  listen.  As  he  listens  his  face  brightens.] 
I  never  dreamed  a  kiss  could  be  so  terrible  .  .  . 
until  .  .  .  until  he  told  me.  He  only  told  me 
this  morning. 

NED 

[Abruptly.]  Is  that  what  you  are  crying 
about? 

LORETTA 
[Reluctantly.]     N-no. 

NED 

[In  hopeless  voice,  the  brightness  gone  out  of 
his  face,  about  to  begin  pacing  again.]  Then 
what  are  you  crying  about? 

LORETTA 

Because  you  said  I  had  to  marry  Billy.  I 
don't  want  to  marry  Billy.  I  don't  want  to  leave 
Daisy.  I  don't  know  what  I  want.  I  wish  I 
were  dead. 

NED 

[Nerving  himself  for  another  effort.]  Now 
look  here,  Loretta,  be  sensible.  What  is  this 


A  WICKED  WOMAN  145 

about  kisses?    You  haven't  told  me  everything 
after  all. 

LORETTA 

I  ...  I  don't  want  to  tell  you  everything. 

NED 
[Imperatively.]     You  must. 

LORETTA 
[Surrendering.]     Well,  then  .  .  .  must  I? 

NED 
You  must. 

LORETTA 

[Floundering.]     He  ...  I  ...  we  ...  I  let 
him,  and  he  kissed  me. 

NED 
[Desperately,  controlling  himself.]     Go  on. 

LORETTA 

He  says  eight,  but  I  can't  think  of  more  than 
five  times. 

NED 
Yes,  go  on. 

LORETTA 
That's  all. 


146  THE  HUMAN  DEIFT 

NED 
[With  vast  incredulity.]     All? 

LORETTA 
[Puzzled.]     All? 

NED 

[Awkwardly.]  I  mean  ...  er  ...  nothing 
worse? 

LORETTA 

[Puzzled.]  Worse?  As  though  there  could 
be.  Billy  said  — 

NED 
[Interrupting.]     When? 

LORETTA 

This  afternoon.  Just  now.  Billy  said  that 
my  .  .  .  our  .  .  .  our  .  .  .  our  kisses  were  ter 
rible  if  we  didn't  get  married. 

NED 
What  else  did  he  say? 

LORETTA 

He  said  that  when  a  woman  permitted  a  man 
to  kiss  her  she  always  married  him.  That  it  was 
awful  if  she  didn't.  It  was  the  custom,  he  said ; 
and  I  say  it  is  a  bad,  wicked  custom,  and  it  has 


A  WICKED  WOMAN  147 

broken  my  heart.  I  shall  never  be  happy  again. 
I  know  I  am  terrible,  but  I  can't  help  it.  I  must 
have  been  born  wicked. 

NED 

[Absent-mindedly  bringing  out  a  cigarette  and 
striking  a  match.]  Do  you  mind  if  I  smoke? 
[Coming  to  himself  again,  and  flinging  away 
match  and  cigarette.]  I  beg  your  pardon.  I 
don't  want  to  smoke.  I  didn't  mean  that  at  all. 
What  I  mean  is  ...  [He  bends  over  LORETTA, 
catches  her  hands  in  his,  then  sits  on  arm  of  chair, 
softly  puts  one  arm  around  her,  and  is  about  to 
kiss  her.] 

LORETTA 

[With  horror,  repulsing  him.]     No!     No! 

NED 
[Surprised.]     What's  the  matter? 

LORETTA 

[Agitatedly.]  Would  you  make  me  a  wickeder 
woman  than  I  am? 

NED 
A  kiss? 

LORETTA 

There  will  be  another  scandal.  That  would 
make  two  scandals. 


148  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

NED 
To  kiss  the  woman  I  love  ...  a  scandal? 

LORETTA 

Billy  loves  me,  and  he  said  so. 

NED 

Billy  is  a  joker  ...  or  else  he  is  as  innocent 
as  you. 

LORETTA 
But  you  said  so  yourself. 

NED 
[Taken  aback.]     I? 

LORETTA 

Yes,  you  said  it  yourself,  with  your  own 
lips,  not  ten  minutes  ago.  I  shall  never  believe 
you  again. 

NED 

[Masterfully  putting  arm  around  her  and 
drawing  Tier  toward  him.}  And  I  am  a  joker, 
too,  and  a  very  wicked  man.  Nevertheless,  you 
must  trust  me.  There  will  be  nothing  wrong. 

LORETTA 
[Preparing  to  yield.}     And  no  ...  scandal? 


A  WICKED  WOMAN  149 

NED 

Scandal  fiddlesticks.     Loretta,  I  want  you  to 
be  my  wife.     [He  waits  anxiously.] 

[JACK  HEMINGWAY,  in  fishing  costume,  ap 
pears  in  doorway  to  right  and  looks  on.] 

NED 
You  might  say  something. 

LORETTA 
I  will  ...  if  ... 

[ALICE  HEMINGWAY  appears  in  doorway  to 
left  and  looks  on.] 

NED 
[In  suspense.]     Yes,  go  on. 

LORETTA 
If  I  don't  have  to  marry  Billy. 

NED 

[Almost   shouting.]     You   can't   marry   both 
of  us! 

LORETTA 

[Sadly,  repulsing  him  with  her  hands.]     Then, 
Ned,  I  cannot  marry  you. 

NED 
[Dumbfounded.]     W-what? 


150  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

LORETTA 

[Sadly.]     Because  I  can't  marry  both  of  you. 

NED 
Bosh  and  nonsense ! 

LORETTA 
I'd  like  to  marry  you,  but  .  .  . 

NED 
There  is  nothing  to  prevent  you. 

LORETTA 

[With  sad  conviction.]  Oh,  yes,  there  is. 
You  said  yourself  that  I  had  to  marry  Billy. 
You  said  you  would  s-s-shoot  him  if  he  didn't. 

NED 
[Drawing  her  toward  him.]     Nevertheless  .  .  . 

LORETTA 

[Slightly  holding  him  off.]  And  it  isn't  the 
custom  .  .  .  what  .  .  .  Billy  said. 

NED 

No,  it  isn't  the  custom.  Now,  Loretta,  will  you 
marry  me? 

LORETTA 
[Pouting  demurely.]     Don't  be  angry  with  me, 


A  WICKED  WOMAN  151 

Ned.  [He  gathers  her  into  his  arms  and  kisses 
her.  She  partially  frees  herself,  gasping.]  I 
wish  it  were  the  custom,  because  now  I'd  have  to 
marry  you,  Ned,  wouldn't  I? 

[NED  and  LORETTA  kiss  a  second  time  and 

profoundly.] 

[JACK  HEMINGWAY  chuckles.] 
[NED  and  LORETTA,,  startled,  but  still  in  each 
other's    arms,    look    around.     NED    looks 
sillily  at  ALICE   HEMINGWAY.    LORETTA 
looks  at  JACK  HEMINGWAY.] 

LORETTA 
I  don't  care. 


CURTAIN 


THE  BIRTH  MARK 

Sketch  by  Jack  London 

written  for 
Robert  and  Julia  Fitzsimmons 


THE  BIRTH  MARK 

SCENE  —  One  of  the  club  rooms  of  the  West  Bay 
Athletic  Club.  Near  centre  front  is  a  large 
table  covered  with  newspapers  and  magazines, 
At  left  a  punching-bag  apparatus.  At  right, 
against  wall,  a  desk,  on  which  rests  a  desk- 
telephone.  Door  at  rear  toicard  left.  On 
walls  are  framed  pictures  of  pugilists,  con 
spicuously  among  which  is  one  of  Robert  Fitz- 
simmons.  Appropriate  furnishings,  etc.,  such 
as  foils,  clubs,  dumb-bells  and  trophies. 

[Enter  MAUD  SYLVESTER.] 

[She  is  dressed  as  a  man,  in  evening  clothes,  pre 
ferably  a  Tuxedo.  In  her  hand  is  a  card,  and 
under  her  arm  a  paper-wrapped  parcel.  She 
peeps  about  curiously  and  advances  to  table. 
She  is  timorous  and  excited,  elated  and  at  the 
same  time  frightened.  Her  eyes  are  dancing 
with  excitement.] 

MAUD 

[Pausing  by  table.]     Not  a  soul  saw  me.     I 
wonder    where    everybody    is.     And    that    big 

155 


156  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

brother  of  mine  said  I  could  not  get  in.  [She 
reads  back  of  card.]  "  Here  is  my  card,  Maudie. 
If  you  can  use  it,  go  ahead.  But  you  will  never 
get  inside  the  door.  I  consider  my  bet  as  good 
as  won."  [Looking  up,  triumphantly.]  You  do, 
do  you?  Oh,  if  you  could  see  your  little  sister 
now.  Here  she  is,  inside.  [Pauses,  and  looks 
about.]  So  this  is  the  West  Bay  Athletic  Club. 
No  women  allowed.  Well,  here  I  am,  if  I  don't 
look  like  one.  [Stretches  out  one  leg  and  then 
the  other,  and  looks  at  them.  Leaving  card  and 
parcel  on  table,  she  struts  around  like  a  man, 
looks  at  pictures  of  pugilists  on  walls,  reading 
aloud  their  names  and  making  appropriate  re 
marks.  But  she  stops  before  the  portrait  of 
Fitzsimmons  and  reads  aloud.]  "Robert  Fitz- 
simmons,  the  greatest  warrior  of  them  all." 
[Clasps  hands,  and  looking  up  at  portrait  mur 
murs.]  Oh,  you  dear! 

[Continues  strutting  around,  imitating  what 
she  considers  are  a  man's  stride  and  swagger,  re 
turns  to  table  and  proceeds  to  unwrap  parcel.] 
Well,  I'll  go  out  like  a  girl,  if  I  did  come  in  like 
a  man.  [Drops  wrapping  paper  on  table  and 
holds  up  a  woman's  long  automobile  cloak  and 
a  motor  bonnet.  Is  suddenly  startled  by  sound 
of  approaching  footsteps  and  glances  in  a  fright- 


THE  BIRTH  MARK  157 

ened  way  toward  door.}  Mercy!  Here  comes 
somebody  now!  [Glances  about  her  in  alarm, 
drops  cloak  and  bonnet  on  floor  close  to  table, 
seizes  a  handful  of  newspapers,  and  runs  to  large 
leather  chair  to  right  of  table,  where  she  seats 
herself  hurriedly.  One  paper  she  holds  up  before 
her,  hiding  her  face  as  she  pretends  to  read.  Un 
fortunately  the  paper  is  upside  down.  The  other 
papers  lie  on  her  lap.~\ 

[Enter  ROBERT  FITZSIMMONS.] 

[He  looks  about ,  advances  to  table,  takes  out 
cigarette  case  and  is  about  to  select  one,  when 
he  notices  motor  cloak  and  bonnet  on  floor. 
He  lays  cigarette  case  on  table  and  picks  them 
up.  They  strike  him  as  profoundly  curious 
things  to  be  in  a  club  room.  He  looks  at  MAUD, 
then  sees  card  on  table.  He  picks  it  up  and 
reads  it  to  himself,  then  looks  at  her  with  com 
prehension.  Hidden  by  her  newspaper,  she 
sees  nothing.  He  look  at  card  again  and  reads 
and  speaks  in  an  aside.] 

FITZSIMMONS 

"  Maudie.  John  H.  Sylvester."  That  must  be 
Jack  Sylvester's  sister  Maud.  [FITZSIMMONS 
shows  by  his  expression  that  he  is  going  to  play 
a  joke.  Tossing  cloak  and  bonnet  under  the 


158  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

table  he  places  card  in  his  vest  pockety  selects  a 
chair,  sits  down,  and  looks  at  MAUD.  He  notes 
paper  is  upside  down,  is  hugely  tickled,  and 
laughs  silently.]  Hello!  [Newspaper  is  agi 
tated  by  slight  tremor.  He  speaks  more  loudly.] 
Hello!  [Newspaper  shakes  badly.  He  speaks 
very  loudly.]  Hello! 

MAUD 

[Peeping  at  him  over  top  of  paper  and  speak 
ing  hesitatingly.]  H-h-hello! 

FITZSIMMONS 

[Gruffly.]  You  are  a  queer  one,  reading  a 
paper  upside  down. 

MAUD 

[Lowering  newspaper  and  trying  to  appear  at 
ease.]  It's  quite  a  trick,  isn't  it?  I  often  prac 
tice  it.  I'm  real  clever  at  it,  you  know. 

FITZSIMMONS 

[Grunts,  then  adds.]  Seems  to  me  I  have  seen 
you  before. 

MAUD 

[Glancing  quickly  from  his  face  to  portrait  and 
back  again.]  Yes,  and  I  know  you  —  You  are 
Robert  Fitzsimmons. 


THE  BIRTH  MARK  159 

FlTZSIMMONS 

I  thought  I  knew  you. 

MAUD 

Yes,  it  was  out  in  San  Francisco.  My  people 
still  live  there.  I'm  just,  ahem,  doing  New  York. 

FlTZSIMMONS 

But  I  don't  quite  remember  the  name. 

MAUD 
Jones  —  Harry  Jones. 

FlTZSIMMONS 

[Hugely  delighted,  leaping  from  chair  and 
striding  over  to  her.  Sure.  [Slaps  her  resound 
ingly  on  shoulder.] 

[She  is  nearly  crushed  ~by  the  weight  of  the 
blow,  and  at  the  same  time  shocked.  She 
scrambles  to  her  feet.] 

FlTZSIMMONS 

Glad  to  see  you,  Harry.  [He  wrings  her  hand 
so  that  it  hurts.]  Glad  to  see  you  again,  Harry. 
[He  continues  wringing  her  hand  and  pumping 
her  arm.] 

MAUD 

[Struggling  to  withdraw  her  hand  and  finally 
succeeding.,  Her  voice  is  rather  faint.]  Ye-es, 


160  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

er  .  .  .  Bob  ...  er  ...  glad  to  see  you  again. 
[She  looks  ruefully  at  her  bruised  fingers  and 
sinks  into  chair.  Then,  recollecting  her  part,  she 
crosses  her  legs  in  a  mannish  way.] 

FITZSIMMONS 

[Crossing  to  desk  at  right,  against  which  he 
leans,  facing  her.]  You  were  a  wild  young  ras 
cal  in  those  San  Francisco  days.  [Chuckling.] 
Lord,  Lord,  how  it  all  comes  back  to  me. 

MAUD 
[Boastfully.  ]     I  was  wild  —  some, 

FITZSIMMONS 

[Grinning.]  I  should  say!  Remember  that 
night  I  put  you  to  bed? 

MAUD 
[Forgetting  herself,  indignantly.]     Sir! 

FITZSIMMONS 
You  were  .  .  .er  .  .  .  drunk. 

MAUD 
I  never  was! 

FITZSIMMONS 

Surely  you  haven't  forgotten  that  night! 
You  began  with  dropping  champagne  bottles  out 


THE  BIRTH  MARK  161 

of  the  club  windows  on  the  heads  of  the  people 
on  the  sidewalk,  and  you  wound  up  by  assaulting 
a  cabman.  And  let  me  tell  you  I  saved  you  from 
a  good  licking  right  there,  and  squared  it  with  the 
police.  Don't  you  remember? 

MAUD 

[Nodding  hesitatingly.]  Yes,  it  is  beginning 
to  come  back  to  me.  I  was  a  bit  tight  that  night. 

FITZSIMMONS 

[Exultantly.]  A  bit  tight!  Why,  before  I 
could  get  you  to  bed  you  insisted  on  telling  me 
the  story  of  your  life. 

MAUD 
Did  I?    I  don't  remember  that. 

FITZSIMMONS 

I  should  say  not.  You  were  past  remembering 
anything  by  that  time.  You  had  your  arms 
around  my  neck  — 

MAUD 

[Interrupting.  ]     Oh ! 

FITZSIMMONS 

And  you  kept  repeating  over  and  over,  "  Bob, 
dear  Bob." 


162  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

MAUD 

[Springing  to  her  feet.]  Oh!  I  never  did! 
[Recollecting  herself.]  Perhaps  I  must  hare.  I 
was  a  trifle  wild  in  those  days,  I  admit.  But  I'm 
wise  now.  I've  sowed  my  wild  oats  and  steadied 
down. 

FITZSIMMONS 

I'm  glad  to  hear  that,  Harry.  You  were  tear 
ing  off  a  pretty  fast  pace  in  those  days.  [Pause, 
in  which  MAUD  nods.]  Still  punch  the  bag? 

MAUD 

[In  quick  alarm,  glancing  at  punching  bag.] 
No,  I've  got  out  of  the  hang  of  it. 

FITZSIMMONS 

[Reproachfully.]  You  haven't  forgotten  that 
right-and-left,  arm-elbow  and  shoulder  movement 
I  taught  you? 

MAUD 
[ With  hesitation.]     N  —  o  —  o. 

FITZSIMMONS 
[Moving  toward  bag  to  left.]     Then,  come  on. 

MAUD 

[Rising  reluctantly  and  following.]  I'd 
rather  see  you  punch  the  bag.  I'd  just  love  to. 


THE  BIRTH  MARK  163 

FlTZSIMMONS 

I  will,  afterward.     You  go  to  it  first. 

MAUD 

[Eyeing  the  bag  in  alarm.  ]  No ;  you.  I'm  out 
of  practice. 

FlTZSIMMONS 

[Looking  at  her  sharply.]  How  many  drinks 
have  you  had  to-night? 

MAUD 

Not  a  one.  I  don't  drink  —  that  is,  er,  only 
occasionally. 

FlTZSIMMONS 

[Indicating  bag.]     Then  go  to  it. 
MAUD 

No ;  I  tell  you  I  am  out  of  practice.  I've  for 
gotten  it  all.  You  see,  I  made  a  discovery. 
[Pauses.] 

FlTZSIMMONS 

Yes? 

MAUD 

I  —  I  —  you  remember  what  a  light  voice  I  al 
ways  had  —  almost  soprano? 

FlTZSIMMONS 

[Nods]     Well,  I  discovered  it  was  a  perfect 


164  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

falsetto.  I've  been  practising  it  ever  since.  Ex 
perts,  in  another  room,  would  swear  it  was  a 
woman's  voice.  So  would  you,  if  you  turned 
your  back  and  I  sang. 

FITZSIMMONS 

[Who  has  been  laughing  increduously ,  now  'be 
comes  suspicious.}  Look  here,  kid,  I  think  you 
are  an  imposter.  You  are  not  Harry  Jones  at 
all. 

MAUD 
I  am,  too. 

FITZSIMMONS 
I  don't  believe  it.     He  was  heavier  than  you. 

MAUD 

I  had  the  fever  last  summer  and  lost  a  lot  of 
weight. 

FITZSIMMONS 

You  are  the  Harry  Jones  that  got  soused  and 
had  to  be  put  to  bed? 

MAUD 
Y  — e  — s. 

FITZSIMMONS 
There  is  one  thing  I  remember  very  distinctly. 


THE  BIRTH  MARK  165 

Harry  Jones  had  a  birth  mark  on  his  knee.     [He 
looks  at  her  legs  searchingly.] 

MAUD 

[Embarrassed,  then  resolving  to  carry  it  out.] 
Yes,  right  here.  [She  advances  right  leg  and 
touches  it.] 

FlTZSIMMONS 

[Triumphantly.]  Wrong.  It  was  the  other 
knee. 

MAUD 
I  ought  to  know. 

FlTZSIMMONS 

You  haven't  any  birth  mark  at  all. 

MAUD 
I  have,  too. 

FlTZSIMMONS 

[Suddenly  springing  to  her  and  attempting  to 
seize  her  leg.]  Then  we'll  prove  it.  Let  me  see. 

MAUD 

[In  a  panic  backs  away  from  him  and  resists 
his  attempts,  until  grinning  in  an  aside  to  the 
audience,  he  gives  over.  She,  in  an  aside  to  audi 
ence.]  Fancy  his  wanting  to  see  my  birth  mark. 


166  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

FlTZSIMMONS 

[Bullying.  Then  take  a  go  at  the  bag.  [She 
shakes  her  head.]  You're  not  Harry  Jones. 

MAUD 
[Approaching  punching  bag.]     I  am,  too. 

FlTZSIMMONS 

Then  hit  it. 

MAUD 

[Resolving  to  attempt  it,  hits  ~bag  several  nice 
blows,  and  then  is  struck  on  the  nose  by  it.]  Oh ! 

[Recovering  herself  and  rubbing  her  nose.]  I 
told  you  I  was  out  of  practice.  You  punch  the 
bag,  Bob. 

FlTZSIMMONS 

I  will,  if  you  will  show  me  what  you  can  do 
with  that  wonderful  soprano  voice  of  yours. 

MAUD 

I  don't  dare.  Everybody  would  think  there 
was  a  woman  in  the  club. 

FlTZSIMMONS 

[Shaking  his  head.]  No,  they  won't.  They've 
all  gone  to  the  fight.  There's  not  a  soul  in  the 
building. 


THE  BIRTH  MARK  167 

MAUD 

[Alarmed,  in  a  weak  voice.]     Not  —  a  —  soul 
—  in  —  the  building? 

FITZSIMMONS 
Not  a  soul.     Only  you  and  I. 

MAUD 

[Starting   hurriedly   toward  door.]     Then    I 
must  go. 

FITZSIMMONS 
What's  your  hurry?     Sing. 

MAUD 

[Turning  back  with  new  resolve.]     Let  me  see 
you  punch  the  bag, —  er  —  Bob. 

FITZSIMMONS 
You  sing  first. 

MAUD 
No ;  you  punch  first. 

FITZSIMMONS 
I  don't  believe  you  are  Harry 

MAUD 

[Hastily.]     All  right,  I'll  sing.     You  sit  down 
over  there  and  turn  your  back. 
[FITZSIMMONS  obeys.] 


168  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

[MAUD  walks  over  to  the  table  toward  right. 
She  is  about  to  sing,  when  she  notices 
FITZSIMMONS'S  cigarette  case,  picks  it  up, 
and  in  an  aside  reads  his  name  on  it 
and  speaks.] 

MAUD 

"  Robert  Fitzsimmons."     That  will  prove  to 
my  brother  that  I  have  been  here. 

FITZSIMMONS 
Hurry  up. 

[MAUD  hastily  puts  cigarette  case  in  her 
pocket  and  begins  to  sing.] 

SONG 

[During  the  song  FITZSIMMONS  turns  his 
head  slowly  and  looks  at  her  with  growing 
admiration.] 

MAUD 
How  did  you  like  it? 

FITZSIMMONS 

[  Gruffly.  ]     Rotten.     Anybody  could  tell  it  was 
a  boy's  voice  — 

MAUD 
Oh! 


THE  BIRTH  MAKK  169 

FlTZSIMMONS 

It  is  rough  and  coarse  and  it  cracked  on  every 
high  note. 

MAUD 
Oh!     Oh! 

[Recollecting  herself  and  shrugging  her  shoul 
ders.]  Oh,  very  well.  Now  let's  see  if  you  can 
do  any  better  with  the  bag. 

[FITZSIMMONS  takes  off  coat  and  gives  exhi 
bition.] 

[MAUD  looks  on  in  an  ecstasy  of  admiration.] 

MAUD 

[As  he  finishes.  ]     Beautiful !     Beautiful ! 

[As  he  puts  on  coat  and  goes  over  and  sits 
down  near  table.]  Nothing  like  the  bag  to  lim 
ber  one  up.  I  feel  like  a  fighting  cock.  Harry, 
let's  go  out  on  a  toot,  you  and  I. 

MAUD 
Wh  — a  — a  — t? 

FITZSIMMONS 

A  toot.  You  know  —  one  of  those  rip-snort 
ing  nights  you  used  to  make. 

MAUD 
[Emphatically,  as  she  picks  up  newspapers 


170  THE  HUMAN  DKIFT 

from  leather  chair,  sits  down,  and  places  them  on 
her  lap.]  I'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  I've  — 
I've  reformed. 

FITZSIMMONS 
You  used  to  joy-ride  like  the  very  devil. 

MAUD 
I  know  it, 

FITZSIMMONS 
And  you  always  had  a  pretty  girl  or  two  along. 

MAUD 

[Boastfully,  in  mannish  fashion.]  Oh,  I  still 
have  my  fling.  Do  you  know  any  —  well,  —  er, 
—  nice  girls? 

FITZSIMMONS 
Sure. 

MAUD 
Put  me  wise. 

FITZSIMMONS 
Sure.     You  know  Jack  Sylvester? 

MAUD 
[Forgetting  herself.  ]     He's  my  brother  — 

FITZSIMMONS 
[Exploding.]     What! 


THE  BIRTH  MARK  171 

MAUD 
—  In-law's  first  cousin. 

FITZSIMMONS 
Oh! 

MAUD 

So  you  see  I  don't  know  him  very  well.  I  only 
met  him  once  —  at  the  club.  We  had  a  drink  to 
gether. 

FITZSIMMONS 
Then  you  don't  know  his  sister? 

MAUD 

[Starting.]  His  sister?  I  —  I  didn't  know 
he  had  a  sister. 

FITZSIMMONS 

[Enthusiastically.]  She's  a  peach.  A  queen. 
A  little  bit  of  all  right.  A  —  a  loo-loo. 

MAUD 
[Flattered.]     She  is,  is  she? 

FITZSIMMONS 

She's  a  scream.  You  ought  to  get  acquainted 
with  her. 

MAUD 
[Sly 'It/.]     You  know  her,  then? 


172  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

FlTZSIMMONS 

You  bet. 

MAUD 

[Aside.]    Oh,  ho!    [To  FITZSIMMONS.]    Know 
her  very  well? 

FITZSIMMONS 

I've  taken  her  out  more  times  than  I  can  re 
member.     You'll  like  her,  I'm  sure. 

MAUD 
Thanks.     Tell  me  some  more  about  her. 

FITZSIMMONS 

She  dresses  a  bit  loud.     But  you  won't  mind 
that.     And  whatever  you  do,  don't  take  her  to  eat. 

MAUD 
[Hiding  her  chagrin.]     Why  not? 

FITZSIMMONS 
I  never  saw  such  an  appetite  — 

MAUD 
Oh! 

FITZSIMMONS 

It's  fair  sickening.     She  must  have  a  tape 
worm.     And  she  thinks  she  can  sing. 


THE  BIRTH  MARK  173 

MAUD 
Yes? 

FlTZSIMMONS 

Rotten.  You  can  do  better  yourself,  and  that's 
not  saying  much.  She's  a  nice  girl,  really  she  is, 
but  she  is  the  black  sheep  of  the  family.  Funny, 
isn't  it? 

MAUD 

[Weak  voice.]     Yes,  funny. 

FlTZSIMMONS 

Her  brother  Jack  is  all  right.  But  he  can't  do 
anything  with  her.  She's  a  —  a  — 

MAUD 
[Grimly.]     Yes.     Go  on. 

FlTZSIMMONS 

A  holy  terror.  She  ought  to  be  in  a  reform 
school. 

MAUD 

[Springing  to  her  feet  and  slamming  news 
papers  in  his  face.]  Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  You  liar! 
She  isn't  anything  of  the  sort ! 

FlTZSIMMONS 

[Recovering  from  the  onslaught  and  making 
believe  he  is  angry,  advancing  threateningly  on 


174  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

her.]     Now  I'm  going  to  put  a  head  on  you.    You 
young  hoodlum. 

MAUD 

[All  alarm  and  contrition,  backing  away  from 
him.]  Don't!  Please  don't!  I'm  sorry!  I  apol 
ogise.  I  —  I  beg  your  pardon,  Bob.  Only  I 
don't  like  to  hear  girls  talked  about  that  way, 
even  —  even  if  it  is  true.  And  you  ought  to 
know. 

FITZSIMMONS 

[Subsiding  and  resuming  seat.]  You've 
changed  a  lot,  I  must  say. 

MAUD 

[Sitting  down  in  leather  chair.]  I  told  you 
I'd  reformed.  Let  us  talk  about  something  else. 
Why  is  it  girls  like  prize  fighters?  I  should 
think  —  ahem  —  I  mean  it  seems  to  me  that  girls 
would  think  prize  fighters  horrid. 

FITZSIMMONS 
They  are  men. 

MAUD 

But  there  is  so  much  crookedness  in  the  game. 
One  hears  about  it  all  the  time. 


THE  BIRTH  MARK  175 

FlTZSIMMONS 

There  are  crooked  men  in  every  business  and 
profession.  The  best  fighters  are  not  crooked. 

MAUD 

I  —  er  —  I  thought  they  all  faked  fights  when 
there  was  enough  in  it. 

FlTZSIMMONS 

Not  the  best  ones. 

MAUD 
Did  you  —  er  —  ever  fake  a  fight? 

FlTZSIMMONS 

[Looking  at  her  sharply,  then  speaking 
solemnly.]  Yes.  Once. 

MAUD 

[Shocked,  speaking  sadly.]  And  I  always 
heard  of  you  and  thought  of  you  as  the  one  clean 
champion  who  never  faked. 

FlTZSIMMONS 

[Gently  and  seriously.]  Let  me  tell  you  about 
it.  It  was  down  in  Australia.  I  had  just  begun 
to  fight  my  way  up.  It  was  with  old  Bill  Hobart 
out  at  Rushcutters  Bay.  I  threw  the  fight  to 
him. 


176  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

MAUD 

[Repelled,  disgusted.]  Oh!  I  could  not  have 
believed  it  of  you. 

FITZSIMMONS 

Let  me  tell  you  about  it.  Bill  was  an  old 
fighter.  Not  an  old  man,  you  know,  but  he'd 
been  in  the  fighting  game  a  long  time.  He  was 
about  thirty-eight  and  a  gamer  man  never  entered 
the  ring.  But  he  was  in  hard  luck.  Younger 
fighters  were  coming  up,  and  he  was  being 
crowded  out.  At  that  time  it  wasn't  often  he  got 
a  fight  and  the  purses  were  small.  Besides  it  was 
a  drought  year  in  Australia.  You  don't  know 
what  that  means.  It  means  that  the  rangers  are 
starved.  It  means  that  the  sheep  are  starved 
and  die  by  the  millions.  It  means  that  there  is 
no  money  and  no  work,  and  that  the  men  and 
women  and  kiddies  starve. 

Bill  Hobart  had  a  missus  and  three  kids  and  at 
the  time  of  his  fight  with  me  they  were  all  starv 
ing.  They  did  not  have  enough  to  eat.  Do  you 
understand?  They  did  not  have  enough  to  eat. 
And  Bill  did  not  have  enough  to  eat.  He  trained 
on  an  empty  stomach,  which  is  no  way  to  train 
you'll  admit.  During  that  drought  year  there 
was  little  enough  money  in  the  ring,  but  he  had 


THE  BIRTH  MARK  177 

failed  to  get  any  fights.  He  had  worked  at  long- 
shoring,  ditch-digging,  coal-shovelling  —  any 
thing,  to  keep  the  life  in  the  missus  and  the  kid 
dies.  The  trouble  was  the  jobs  didn't  hold  out. 
And  there  he  was,  matched  to  fight  with  me,  be 
hind  in  his  rent,  a  tough  old  chopping-block,  but 
weak  from  lack  of  food.  If  he  did  not  win  the 
fight,  the  landlord  was  going  to  put  them  into  the 
street. 

MAUD 

But  why  would  you  want  to  fight  with  him  in 
such  weak  condition? 

FITZSIMMONS 

I  did  not  know.  I  did  not  learn  till  at  the 
ringside  just  before  the  fight.  It  was  in  the 
dressing  rooms,  waiting  our  turn  to  go  on.  Bill 
came  out  of  his  room,  ready  for  the  ring.  "  Bill," 
I  said  —  in  fun,  you  know.  "  Bill,  I've  got  to  do 
you  to-night."  He  said  nothing,  but  he  looked  at 
me  with  the  saddest  and  most  pitiful  face  I  have 
ever  seen.  He  went  back  into  his  dressing  room 
and  sat  down. 

"  Poor  Bill !  "  one  of  my  seconds  said.  "  He's 
been  fair  starving  these  last  weeks.  And  I've 
got  it  straight,  the  landlord  chucks  him  out  if  he 
loses  to-night." 


178  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

Then  the  call  came  and  we  went  into  the  ring. 
Bill  was  desperate.  He  fought  like  a  tiger,  a 
madman.  He  was  fair  crazy.  He  was  fighting 
for  more  than  I  was  fighting  for.  I  was  a  rising 
fighter,  and  I  was  fighting  for  the  money  and  the 
recognition.  But  Bill  was  fighting  for  life  —  for 
the  life  of  his  loved  ones. 

Well,  condition  told.  The  strength  wTent  out 
of  him,  and  I  was  fresh  as  a  daisy.  "  What's 
the  matter,  Bill?"  I  said  to  him  in  a  clinch. 
"  You're  weak."  "  I  ain't  had  a  bit  to  eat  this 
day,"  he  answered.  That  was  all. 

By  the  seventh  round  he  was  about  all  in,  hang 
ing  on  and  panting  and  sobbing  for  breath  in  the 
clinches,  and  I  knew  I  could  put  him  out  any 
time.  I  drew  my  right  for  the  short  arm  jab 
that  would  do  the  business.  He  knew  it  was 
coming,  and  he  was  powerless  to  prevent  it. 
"  For  the  love  of  God,  Bob/'  he  said ;  and  — 
[Pause.] 

MAUD 
Yes?    Yes? 

FlTZSIMMONS 

I  held  back  the  blow.     We  were  in  a  clinch. 
"  For  the  love  of  God,  Bob,"  he  said  again,  "  the 
missus  and  the  kiddies !  " 


THE  BIRTH  MARK  179 

And  right  there  I  saw  and  knew  it  all.  I  saw 
the  hungry  children  asleep,  and  the  missus  sitting 
up  and  waiting  for  Bill  to  come  home,  waiting 
to  know  whether  they  were  to  have  food  to  eat  or 
be  thrown  out  in  the  street. 

"  Bill,"  I  said,  in  the  next  clinch,  so  low  only 
he  could  hear.  "  Bill,  remember  the  La  Blanche 
swing.  Give  it  to  me,  hard." 

We  broke  away,  and  he  was  tottering  and 
groggy.  He  staggered  away  and  started  to  whirl 
the  swing.  I  saw  it  coming.  I  made  believe  I 
didn't  and  started  after  him  in  a  rush.  Biff! 
It  caught  me  on  the  jaw,  and  I  went  down.  I 
was  young  and  strong.  I  could  eat  punishment. 
I  could  have  got  up  the  first  second.  But  I  lay 
there  and  let  them  count  me  out.  And  making 
believe  I  was  still  dazed,  I  let  them  carry  me  to 
my  corner  and  work  to  bring  me  to.  [Pause.] 
Well,  I  faked  that  fight. 

MAUD 

[Springing  to  him  and  shaking  his  hand.] 
Thank  God !  Oh !  You  are  a  man !  A  —  a  —  a 
hero! 

FITZSIMMONS 

[Dryly,  feeling  in  his  pocket.]  Let's  have  a 
smoke.  [He  fails  to  find  cigarette  case.] 


180  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

MAUD 
I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  you  told  me  that. 

FlTZSIMMONS 

[Gruffly.]  Forget  it.  [He  looks  on  table,  and 
fails  to  find  cigarette  case.  Looks  at  her  sus 
piciously,  then  crosses  to  desk  at  right  and 
reaches  for  telephone.] 

MAUD 
[Curiously.]     What  are  you  going  to  do? 

FlTZSIMMONS 

Call  the  police. 

MAUD 
What  for? 

FlTZSIMMONS 

For  you. 

MAUD 
For  me? 

FlTZSIMMONS 

You  are  not  Harry  Jones.  And  not  only  are 
you  an  imposter,  bat  you  are  a  thief. 

MAUD 
[Indignantly.]     How  dare  you? 


THE  BIRTH  MARK  181 

FlTZSIMMONS 

You  have  stolen  my  cigarette  case. 

MAUD 

[Remembering  and  taken  aback ,  pulls  out 
cigarette  case.]  Here  it  is. 

FlTZSIMMONS 

Too  late.  It  won't  save  you.  This  club  must 
be  kept  respectable.  Thieves  cannot  be  tolerated. 

MAUD 

[Growing  alarm.]  But  you  won't  have  me  ar 
rested? 

FlTZSIMMONS 

I  certainly  will. 

MAUD 
[Pleadingly.]     Please!     Please! 

FlTZSIMMONS 

[Obdurately.]  I  see  no  reason  why  I  should 
not. 

MAUD 

[Hurriedly,  in  a  panic.]  I'll  give  you  a  rea 
son  —  a  —  a  good  one.  I  —  I  —  am  not  Harry 
Jones. 


182  THE  HUMAN  DRIFT 

FlTZSIMMONS 

[Grimly.]  A  good  reason  in  itself  to  call  in 
the  police. 

MAUD 

That  isn't  the  reason.  I'm  —  a  —  Oh !  I'm  so 
ashamed. 

FlTZSIMMONS 

[Sternly.]  I  should  say  you  ought  to  be. 
[Reaches  for  telephone  receiver.] 

MAUD 

[In  rush  of  desperation.]  Stop!  I'm  a  — 
I'm  a  —  a  girl.  There!  [Sinks  down  in  chair, 
burying  her  face  in  her  hands.] 

[FITZSIMMONS  hanging  up  receiver,  grunts.] 
[MAUD  removes  hands  and  looks  at  him  in 
dignantly.     As  she  speaks  her  indignation 
grows.] 

MAUD 

I  only  wanted  your  cigarette  case  to  prove  to 
my  brother  that  I  had  been  here.  I  —  I'm  Maud 
Sylvester,  and  you  never  took  me  out  once.  And 
I'm  not  a  black  sheep.  And  I  don't  dress  loudly, 
and  I  haven't  a  —  a  tapeworm. 

FlTZSIMMONS 

[Grinning   and   pulling  out   card  from   vest 


THE  BIRTH  MARK  183 

pocket.]     I  knew  you  were  Miss  Sylvester  all  the 
time. 

MAUD 

Oh!  You  brute!  I'll  never  speak  to  you 
again. 

FlTZSIMMONS 

[Gently.]  You'll  let  me  see  you  safely  out  of 
here. 

MAUD 

[Relenting.]  Ye-e-s.  [She  rises,  crosses  to 
table,  and  is  about  to  stoop  for  motor  cloak  and 
bonnet,  but  he  forestalls  her,  holds  cloak  and 
helps  her  into  it.]  Thank  you.  [She  takes  off 
wig,  fluffs  her  own  hair  becomingly,  and  puts  on 
bonnet,  looking  every  inch  a  pretty  young  girl, 
ready  for  an  automobile  ride.] 

FlTZSIMMONS 

[Who,  all  the  time,  watching  her  transforma 
tion,  has  been  growing  bashful,  now  handing  her 
the  cigarette  case.]  Here's  the  cigarette  case. 
You  may  k  —  k  —  keep  it. 

MAUD 

[Looking  at  him,  hesitates,  then  takes  it.]  I 
thank  you  —  er  —  Bob.  I  shall  treasure  it  all 


184  THE  HUMAN  DKIFT 

my  life.     [He  is  very  embarrassed.]     Why,  I  do 
believe  you're  bashful.     What  is  the  matter. 

FITZSIMMONS 

[Stammering.]  Why  —  I  —  you  —  You  are 
a  girl  —  and  —  a  —  a  —  deuced  pretty  one. 

MAUD 

[Taking  his  arm,  ready  to  start  for  door.] 
But  you  knew  it  all  along. 

FITZSIMMONS 

But  it's  somehow  different  now  when  you've 
got  your  girl's  clothes  on. 

MAUD 

But  you  weren't  a  bit  bashful  —  or  nice,  when 
—  yOU —  yOU —  [Blurting  it  out.]  Were  so 
anxious  about  birth  marks 

[They  start  to  make  exit.] 


CURTAIN 


PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


"THE  following  pages  contain  advertisements 
of  Macmillan  books  by  the  same  author 


JACK  LONDON'S   WRITINGS 


Jerry 


There  cannot  be  many  more  new  Jack  London 
books,  a  fact  which  will  not  only  be  a  source  of 
deep  regret  to  the  lover  of  truly  American  litera 
ture,  but  which  also  gives  a  very  deep  signifi 
cance  to  the  announcement  of  Jerry.  It  is  not 
at  all  improbable  that  in  this  novel  Mr.  London 
has  achieved  again  the  wide-sweeping  success 
that  was  his  in  the  case  of  The  Call  of  the  V/ild. 
For  Jerry  is  a  dog  story ;  a  story  which  in  its 
big  essentials  recalls  the  earlier  masterpiece,  and 
yet  one  which  is  in  no  way  an  echo  of  that  work, 
but  quite  as  original  in  its  theme  and  quite  as 
satisfying  in  the  way  in  which  that  theme  is 
treated. 


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JACK  LONDON'S   WRITINGS 

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"Jack  London  is  at  his  best  —  that  peculiar  best  which 
is  inimitable.  .  .  .  Nothing  is  more  important  to  note, 
however,  than  the  soundness  of  the  psychology  of  all  these 
stories.  They  are  made  out  of  the  deep  fibre  of  humanity. 
By  command  over  such  material  does  Jack  London  hold 
his  place  in  our  literature.  By  command  over  the  knack 
of  clearly  flowing,  acid-biting  English  that  often  takes  rich 
color."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  Few  collections  of  short  stories  from  the  pen  of  this 
author  show  a  greater  versatility  of  thought  and  literary 
style  than  The  Turtles  of  Taxman."  —  Boston  Daily  Ad 
vertiser. 


THE  ACORN-PLANTER:  A  California 
Forest  Play 

Cloth,  ismo,  $.75 

"  A  fine  and  a  beautiful  play  —  a  call  to  the  world  of  men 
to  awaken  and  know  that  constructive  effort  is  the  highest 
duty  man  can  realize."  —  Review  of  Reviews. 

"  The  play  is  well  constructed,  and  the  songs  and  recit 
atives  are  written  with  an  intelligent  appreciation  of  Indian 
feeling,  and  follow  with  some  closeness  Indian  technique." 
—  New  York  Times. 

"An  excursion  into  the  poetic  dramatic  field,  and  is  of 
unusual  originality  and  interest."  —  San  Francisco  Bul 
letin. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

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JACK  LONDON'S    WRITINGS 

The  Little  Lady  of  the  Big  House 

Price  $1.50 

In  this  story  of  a  woman  whose  life  is  shaped  by 
a  great  love,  Mr.  London  adds  at  least  three  charac 
ters  to  his  already  notable  list  of  literary  portraits  — 
Dick  Forrest,  master  of  broad  acres,  a  man  of  intel 
lect,  training,  and  wealth ;  Paula,  his  wife,  young, 
attractive,  bound  up  in  her  husband  and  his  affairs ; 
and  Evan  Graham,  traveled,  of  easy  manners  and  in 
gratiating  personality,  a  sort  of  Prince  Charming. 
The  problem  comes  with  Graham's  entrance  into 
the  Forrest  family  circle  and  it  is  a  problem  that 
must  be  solved. 

The  Star  Rover 

JACK  LONDON'S  MOST  DARING  NOVEL 

Cloth,  frontispiece  in  colors,  I2mo,  $1.50 

"  But  the  artistic  triumph  of  '  The  Star  Rover  '  is 
in  its  new  use  of  the  reincarnation  idea.  It  is  upon 
this  that  the  author  has  lavished  his  best  work,  car 
rying  it  through  with  a  skill  and  plausibility  that  win 
the  reader.  Jack  London  has  done  something  origi 
nal  in  '  The  Star  Rover '  and  done  it  supremely  well." 
—  New  York  Times. 


THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  Tork 


JACK  LONDON'S   WRITINGS 

THE  SCARLET  PLAGUE  Decorated  cloth,  illustrated  iznto,  $t.oo 

The  relapse  of  civilization  into  barbarism  is  a  theme  which,  as  those  fa 
miliar  with  Mr.  London's  style  will  at  once  see,  is  admirably  suited  to  his 
powers  as  a  novelist. 

"  Mr.  London  has  never  done  a  truer  or  more  consistent  piece  of  imag 
inative  work." —  The  Outlook, 

THE  MUTINY  OF  THE  ELSINORE 

Decorated  cloth,  illustrated,  I2tno,  %i  .35 

Mr.  London  is  here  writing  of  scenes  and  types  of  people  with  which  he 
is  very  familiar,  the  sea  and  ships  and  sailors.  In  addition  to  the  adventure 
element,  of  which  there  is  an  abundance  of  a  most  satisfying  kind,  there  is  a 
thread  of  romance  involving  a  wealthy  young  man  who  takes  the  trip  on  the 
Elsinore  and  the  captain's  daugher. 

"  Strong  characterizations  and  a  splendid  picture  of  indomitable  sailing- 
masters."  —  Springfield  Republican. 

THE  STRENGTH  OF  THE  STRONG 

Decorated  cloth,  frontispiece,  $1.25 

"  The  Strength  of  the  Strong"  is  a  collection  of  short  stories  containing 
some  of  Jack  London's  best  work.  Besides  the  title  piece  there  are  six  tales : 
South  of  the  Slot,  The  Unparalleled  Invasion,  The  Enemy  of  all  the  World, 
The  Dream  of  Debs,  The  Sea  Farmer,  and  Samuel.  They  are  representative 
London  stories  —  his  most  mature  and  interesting  work  —  startlingly  original 
as  to  theme  and  masterly  as  to  treatment. 

ADVENTURE 

Decorated  cloth,  illustrated,  $1.50;  Fiction  Library,  $0.50 
A  thrilling  absorbing  tale  of  rapid  and  exciting  plot,  with  lots  of  excite 
ment,  no  little  humor  and  considerable  sentiment.     It  is  written  with  a  sure 
and  ready  hand,  and  is  altogether  a  remarkable  piece  of  imaginative  writing. 

BURNING  DAYLIGHT  Decorated  cloth,  illustrated,  I2mo,  $1.50 

Fiction  Library  Edition, 

"  A  gripping  story  of  Millions  and  a  Maid."  —  New  York  Herald. 
THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON 

Decorated  cloth,  frontispiece  in  colors, 

"  The  most  wholesome,  the  most  interesting,  the  most  acceptable  book 
that  Mr.  London  has  written." —  The  Dial. 

"  Read  '  The  Valley  of  the  Moon.'     Once  begin  it  and  you  can't  let  it 
alone  until  you  have  finished  it.  ...     '  The  Valley  of  the  Moon '  is  that  kind 
of  a  book."  —  Pittsburgh  Post. 
MARTIN  EDEN  Cloth,  izmo,  $1.50 

"  The  story  possesses  substance,  form,  vigor,  and  vitality  as  does  every 
thing  that  Mr.  London  writes.     It  is  filled  with  the  wine  of  life,  with  a  life 
that  Mr.  London  has  himself  lived,  and  to  which  he  never  wearies  of  giving 
every  part  of  himself."  —  Boston  Evening  Transcript. 
THE  HOUSE   OF   PRIDE  Decorated  cloth,  illustrated,  I2mo,  $1.20 

Honolulu,  Molokai,  the  Lepers'  Island,  and  others  of  the  Hawaiian 
group  afford  splendid  setting  for  the  tales. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


JACK  LONDON'S   WRITINGS 

WHEN   GOD   LAUGHS  Decorated  cloth,  iztno,  illustrated, 

It  is  doubtful  if  anything  will  ever  be  written  that  will  do  as  much  toward 
making  known  and  felt  the  awful  process  of  destruction  resulting  from  child- 
labor  as  will  this  one  comparatively  brief  sketch. 

THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  SNARK 

Decorated  cloth,  illustrated,  Svo,  $2.00 

An  exhilarating  story  of  one  of  the  most  adventurous  voyages  ever 
planned  —  the  passage  of  the  Snark  around  the  world. 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD 

Decorated  cloth,  illustrated  in  colors,  $i.JO 

"  A  big  story  in  sober  English,  and  with  thorough  art  in  the  construction ; 
a  wonderfully  perfect  bit  of  work;  a  book  that  will  be  heard  of  long.  The 
dog's  adventures  are  as  exciting  as  any  man's  exploits  could  be,  and  Mr. 
London's  workmanship  is  wholly  satisfying." —  The  New  York  Sun. 

THE   SEA -WOLF  Decorated  cloth,  illustrated  in  colors,  $/.jo 

"Jack  London's  'The  Sea-Wolf  is  marvelpusly  truthful.  .  .  a  Read 
ing  it  through  at  a  sitting,  we  have  found  it  poignantly  interesting;  ...  a 
superb  piece  of  craftsmanship."  —  The  New  York  Tribune. 

WHITE  FANG  Decorated  cloth,  illustrated  in  colors,  $1.50 

"  A  thrilling  story  of  adventure  .  .  .  stirring  indeed  .  .  .  and  it  touches 
a  chord  of  tenderness  that  is  all  too  rare  in  Mr.  London's  work."  —  Record- 
Herald,  Chicago. 

BEFORE  ADAM  Decorated  cloth,  illustrated  in  colors,  $ijo 

"  The  marvel  of  it  is  not  in  the  story  itself,  but  in  the  audacity  of  the 
man  who  undertook  such  a  task  as  the  writing  of  it.  ...  From  an  artistic 
standpoint  the  book  is  an  undoubted  success.  And  it  is  no  less  a  success 
from  the  standpoint  of  the  reader  who  seeks  to  be  entertained."  —  The  Plain 
Dealer,  Cleveland. 

THE  IRON  HEEL  Decorated  cloth,  $i.jo 

"  Power  is  certainly  the  keynote  of  this  book.  Every  word  tingles  with 
it.  It  is  a  great  book,  one  that  deserves  to  be  read  and  pondered.  ...  It 
contains  a  mighty  lesson  and  a  most  impressive  warning."  —  Indianapolis 
News. 

REVOLUTION        Cloth,  izmo,  $1.50  ;  Standard  Library  Edition,  $O.JO 
"  Here  is  a  field  wherein  London  is  entirely  at  home,  and  the  narrative 
radiates  with  picturesque  description  and  vivid  characterization."  —  Brook 
lyn  Daily  Eagle. 

THE  WAR  OF  THE  CLASSES 

Cloth,  izmo.  $I.JO;  Standard  Library  Edition,  $o.jO 
"  Mr.  London's  book  is  thoroughly  interesting,  and  Mr.  London's  point 
of  view  is,  as  may  be  surmised,  very  different  from  that  of  the  closet  the 
orist."  —  Springfield  Republican. 


THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  Tork 


JACK  LONDON'S   WRITINGS 

PEOPLE   OF  THE  ABYSS  Cloth,  illustrated,  $/.jo 

"This  life  has  been  pictured  many  times  before  —  complacently  and 
soothingly  by  Professor  Walter  A.  Wyckoff,  luridly  by  Mr.  Stead,  scientific 
ally  by  Mr.  Charles  Booth.  But  Mr.  London  alone  has  made  it  real  and 
present  to  us."  —  The  Independent. 

THE  ROAD  Cloth,  izmo,  illustrated,  $2.00 

A  literal  record  of  life  among  tramps,  of  travel  from  end  to  end  of  the 
country. 

JACK  LONDON'S  SHORT  STORIES 

THE  GAME  Each,  cloth,  i2mo,  illustrated,  $f.jo 

A  Transcript  from  Real  Life. 


It  is  told  with  such  a  glow  of  imaginative  illusion,  with  such  intense 

c  vigor,  with  such  effective  audacity  o 
as  if  the  author's  appeal  was  to  the  bodily  eye  as  much  as  to  the  inner  men 


dramatic  vigor,  with  such  effective  audacity  of  phrase,  that  it  almost  seems 


tality,  and  that  the  events  are  actually  happening  before  the  reader."  —  JVeiv 
York  Herald. 

CHILDREN  OF  THE  FROST 

"  Told  with  something  of  that  same  vigorous  and  honest  manliness  and 
indifference  with  which  Mr.  Kipling  makes  unbegging  yet  direct  and  unfail 
ing  appeal  to  the  sympathy  of  his  reader."  —  Richmond  Despatch. 

THE  FAITH  OF  MEN 

"  Mr.  London's  art  as  a  story-teller  nowhere  manifests  more  strongly 
than  in  the  swift,  dramatic  close  of  his  stories.  There  is  no  hesitancy  or  un 
certainty  of  touch.  From  the  start  the  story  moves  straight  to  the  inevitable 
conclusion."  —  Courier-  Journal. 

MOON  FACE 

"  Each  of  the  stories  is  unique  in  its  individual  way,  weird  and  uncanny, 
and  told  in  Mr.  London's  vigorous,  compelling  style."  —  Interior. 

TALES  OF  THE  FISH  PATROL 

"  That  they  are  vividly  told,  hardly  need  be  said,  for  Jack  London  is  a 
realist  as  well  as  a  writer  of  thrilling  romances."  —  Cleveland  Plain  Dealer. 

LOVE  OF  LIFE 

"  Jack  London  is  at  his  best  with  the  short  story  .  .  .  clear-cut,  sharp, 
incisive  with  the  tang  of  the  frost  in  it."  —  Record-Herald,  Chicago. 

LOST  FACE 

The  stories  are  strong  and  robust  and  the  characterizations  are  not  fanci 
ful  creations,  but  the  actual  happenings  of  an  existence  which  the  author  has 
lived  and  now  vividly  describes. 
SOUTH   SEA  TALES  Decorated  cloth,  izmo,  illustrated,  $1.25 

Jack  London's  stories  of  the  South  Seas  have  a  sense  of  reality  about 
them  which  prove  that  he  has  been  on  the  ground  and  has  himself  taken  part 
in  the  combats,  physical  and  mental,  which  he  describes. 

PLAYS  BY  JACK  LONDON 

THEFT  $1.25    |    SCORN  OF  WOMEN  $1.25 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


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